


White Lilac

by WritingIsMyCoffee



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Asexual Character, Connor: The ace icon we all need in this world, DBH-typical violence, F/F, F/M, Fixing plot holes by inserting new ships: the fic, Gen, Illnesses, Implied past suicidal intentions bc it's Hank, M/M, Maybe more on the way? We’ll see, Mental Abuse, Mentions of Cancer, Minor Character Death, Now with a special bonus chapter!!!, Playing fast and loose with android technology, TW for specific chapters later on that won't be tagged here bc of spoilers, The reed900 is a slooooooowwwww burn y'all, drug bust turned "oh no gotta save my son", not beta-read of course bc i'm garbage :D
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-06-01 02:46:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 135,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15133403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingIsMyCoffee/pseuds/WritingIsMyCoffee
Summary: Loss is a constant variable in anyone's life, but how much in each lifetime is never equally measured out. It can't be calculated in individual grams like red ice or as a statistic in an android's scan. But it can be reflected on over and over again until sorrow seems to overshadow the joy.Or in which a drug bust goes horribly wrong, Hank has to face his mistakes, and Connor is slowly dying. Oh, and Markus is really worried about his friend.OR (if we want to get really specific) how many chapters will it be until Hank finally calls Connor his son.





	1. A Bust

**Author's Note:**

> This game is like a problematic dumpster fire but I love Connor and Hank's relationship more than I love myself so here we are.
> 
> Sorry in advance for my complete lack of an update schedule sure to follow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank is stubborn. Connor goes up. Calls are made.

**June 26, 2040**

**11:28 AM**

 

Heavy sheets of rain slam on top of a lone vintage car parked along the side of a dimly-lit alleyway. The thick droplets of water create their own senseless tempo as the storm rolling over Detroit, Michigan continues its rampage. The rain falls strong enough to cause blankets of water to roll off the front window of the car, blinding the passengers gazing through it. Only the slow, cautious sweep of two old window wipers offers them any clear view of the world outside. Otherwise, the muted lights and brick-and-steel building blend together into a blurred canvas.

Sitting tensely upright in the passenger seat is an android known to all among the DPD and the world itself, the one who calls himself Connor. Previously Cyberlife’s puppet before going deviant, RK800 model has his hands clenched tight above his knees, his fingers barely pulling at the folds of his dark slacks. There is a crease between his tightly-knit eyebrows that a piece of loose hair just barely drapes the top of.

In his vision, he spies the outlines of nearby buildings and the orange glows of the inhabitants inside of them with his heat sensors. One cannot rely on simple window wipers to aid them on a stakeout, especially this late at night and especially in this violent a storm. A deep rumble passes overhead, but no flash of lightning is to be seen. Not yet anyway. The forecast constantly updating from the very right edge of his peripheral vision is telling him the worst of the storm has yet to pass over them.

From the very left edge of his peripheral vision, glowing with the same orange the suspects they’re tailing is Connor’s partner, Hank Anderson. A man who made quite a name for himself in the police department a lifetime ago and a handful of years ago created a new one from his own ashes slouches in his seat, his hands knit loosely together in his lap.  The brown duster draped over his shoulders keeps him warm as the cold front moving in tries to zap what little comfort he has away from him. However, Hank himself feels empty, void of any warmth, comfort, or sense of direction.

The blame for this lies printed on the doctor’s note crumped deep in his right pant pocket.

Well, that’s not entirely true, but no one currently sitting in the car is willing to acknowledge this.

“Any movement in there?” Hank asks.

Connor’s silence that follows only makes the thunder passing overhead seem even more daunting. Hank lets out a gruff sigh, leaning his head back into his seat.

“Look, I can tell you’re mad at me, but we’re still on the job. We gotta communicate here, kid. Fowler’ll have both our asses on a plate if we goof off now.”

“I am not mad,” Connor replies slowly.

Hank raises a brow. “Oh really?”

“No, I am not…Disappointed would be a more accurate way to describe how I am currently feeling, Lieutenant.”

“Ah geez,” Hank groans. “Well now I _know_ you’re pissed. You really gonna play that card on me, kid?”

“I would prefer you not refer to me by that nickname, as it is actually starting to make me pissed.”

With a huff, Hank crosses his arms tightly over his chest, where the heart of their whole issue lies. “Well this is just a _lovely_ stakeout we’re having tonight.”

Two symmetrical metal joints tighten in Connor’s jaw. “I don’t appreciate how you are trying to turn this into a joke.”

“I’m not!” Hank retorts.

“Your sarcasm says otherwise.”

“Jesus, Connor…” Hank runs a hand through his hair. If his fingers linger on the strands of silver a bit longer than they should, he doesn’t allow himself to acknowledge it. “Look, I’m more than willing to let you yell at me for as long as you want, but I just…don’t wanna get into it right now, alright?”

Connor shuffles a bit in his seat, his clenched hands moving to kneed at his plastic kneecaps. “You’d like to never discuss this at all.”

Hank’s blood pressure spikes dramatically. His arms uncross themselves in a rush as he turns to his partner with wide eyes. “Hey asshole, what I do with my life is my own business, got that? I don’t need to run every medical decision of mine past you first.”

Connor turns to face his partner, the tension between them growing with the ever-rising storm. “I’m afraid your business is my business when it affects our everyday lives.”

 “It’s not gonna change anything right away,” Hank insists. There’s a soreness growing in his skull, threatening to split it in half. “You remember what the doc said. Hell, you remember everything Connor. I’m not going anywhere for a while.”

“But you will eventually.”

Hank laughs. It comes out bitter, in a way he would not be comfortable with in any other conversation between them. “Humans don’t live forever like androids. I’m just gonna end up in the same place I’ve always meant to go, no matter the time. Meanwhile, you’ll be kicking it here, chasing criminals, fighting for android rights, or whatever the hell else you like to do. I mean, it’s not like you’re seriously realizing this for the first time, right?”

The LED on Connor’s temple changes from its yellow hue to a dangerous red, the kind of color that draws one’s attention through its unsettling nature. It clashes with every aspect of his current appearance, but perfectly mirrors his growing emotions. Two years of truly experiencing emotions can make it difficult for Connor to truly express how he feels sometimes, but now it is quite clear.

“Are you seriously considering not undergoing treatment?”

“C’mon, Connor. At my age, does it really matter?”

Connor finally frowns, his composure failing just like the programs put in place to prevent his deviancy. “You’re 55, an age many human beings consider far away from an elderly age. Your body is more than capable of undergoing the suggested methods of treatment, such as chemotherapy-”

Hank rubs his eyes, his grit teeth holding back a firestorm of protests. “Look, what I decide to do with my body is my business. Just look at this as a sign. If it’s my time, it’s my time.”

“If I may, Lieutenant, I’d say that’s bullshit.”

“For fucks sake, cut it out with that crap!” Hank finally snaps. “You aren’t changing my mind about this! I’m not going back to the docs!”

“You require _treatment_ to _live_ ,” Connor stresses.

“Maybe I don’t-!” Hank stops abruptly, going quiet for a moment before covering up his hesitation with a conjured cough. He places his back fully against his seat and stares out at the rippling layers of water cascading off the front window of his car. “Whatever. We’re done talking about this. Just forget about it.”

Deafening silence falls over the car, the hostility between the passengers cutting off the sound of the storm above. Hank keeps his eyes forward, his expression agitated, and his true opinions to himself. A flash of lightning catches the side of the rearview mirror above his line of sight. The rumble of the thunder is powerful enough to shake the keys in the ignition.

“I thought you were passed this,” Connor finally speaks. His voice is small, as if he’ll break into pieces if he says anything at all.

“Passed what?” Hank questions, his tone purposefully threatening.

Connor does not speak again for a small eternity. “Is there really no incentive left here for you to fight for, Hank?”

Without missing a beat, Hank mutters, “Not one thing.”

Several events occur simultaneously.

A flash of code in Connor’s brain alerts him to a sudden rise in his stress levels.

Another cell inside Hank’s body begins to decay.

One of the suspects being tailed runs outside and fires a round at their car just as the windshield wipers finish another sweep.

Hank is too slow to react, whether by age or blind anger his brain doesn’t realize what is happening before the first bang goes off and Connor is shoving his head towards the steering wheel. Shards of glass fall against his exposed neck and bounce of his grey locks. He brings his hands up to cover himself, all while screaming a dozen panicked profanities. Shot after shot of the suspect’s weapon fires into the car and embeds itself in the leather of the seats.

When the gunfire ceases, Hank sits back up, reaches for his revolver at the same time he reaches for the car door handle, and notices the blue blood soaking into his right sleeve. “ _Connor-?!_ ”

“I’m _fine_ ,” the injured android nearly growls. His program is quick to alert him to the slow trickle of thirium leaking out of the wound on his left cheek. A simple graze, nothing more serious than that (and as if anyone in the car would be willing to admit how close a call it truly was). “We have to move.”

Swiftly, the two cops jump out the car, pieces of broken glass falling onto the pavement below. Rain pelts them the moment they step outside. They draw their weapons just as the suspect draws theirs, firing off new rounds that don’t come anywhere close to hitting their targets now. Two guns against one can easily turn any tides. A shift gunshot or two later and soon the suspect is on the ground, alive but wounded according to Connor’s scans.

Two silhouettes of orange move out of the building and Connor barely has enough time to signal for backup before they’re under fire again. The android looks to his partner through the open car doors and sees Hank is reloading, his human hands too slippery with rain to push the cartridge in fast enough. More warm bodies are moving outside of the building and soon they won’t even have the chance to think about reloading.

Combat maneuvers put into Conner’s programming resurface to the front of his memory, and soon Connor is running towards their assailants at full speed. His sharper mind is able to detect which bullets will reach him first and how much time he has to dodge them, making his approach dangerous but possible to complete. Which is perfect, since they’re overrun and more than likely going to die if Fowler doesn’t arrive soon.

Hank watches in shock, yelling out Connor’s name as his younger counterpart comes close enough to one of their suspects to be shot point blank. A split-second decision on Connor’s part to twist their gun aside and land a swift blow to the gut is the only thing that saves his life. The assailant behind them pushes their way into the fight, only for Connor to fire off a shot that sends them falling to the ground like a softball.

With one final shove, Hank finally reloads his revolver and rejoins the fight. He takes out the suspects coming up on Connor’s rear, and in no more than half a minute the street goes silent again.

Connor is already cuffing someone when Hank hobbles up to the android and smacks him as hard as his body will allow him on the shoulder. “Damn it, Connor! How about a little warning before you go rushing in like that?!”

If Connor hears Hank, he certainly doesn’t show it. Instead, the only response Hank receives is the cold crank of steel handcuffs and a painful hiss from the suspect at the android’s feet. Connor stands and moves on to the next downed attacker, whipping out another pair of handcuffs that jangle aimlessly in the air. “I would appreciate it if you helped me to cuff some of our suspects, Lieutenant. Then we should consider making our way through the building.”

Hank considers grumbling something under his breath but settles for cold silence instead. In no time, five critically-injured red ice dealers are cuffed and waiting for a ride from a local Detroit ambulance. Rain has soaked completely through both cop’s clothing, but a little discomfort doesn’t mean they can stop carrying on with their assignment.

There’s another clap of thunder as both partners turn to the dingy brick building beside them.

 _Shall we?_ Hank quips internally. He thinks on a normal day how easy it would be to let a silly comment slide past his lips, but today is not a normal day. Today is one of those days where every shadow and burst of lightning is a bad omen of what’s to follow; where every argument turns into an ugly firestorm, even if it only sparks from a tiny ember. All this fuss over a damn piece of paper and an illness his body just won’t let him shake.

Bringing up the rear, Hank lets Connor lead him into the building with their weapons drawn once again.

 

**June 27, 2040**

**12:13 AM**

It’s truly amazing how much red ice one can stuff in an abandoned brick building, especially one that looks just as small on the outside as it is on the inside.

The moment Hank walks in through the front door, his nose is hit with the offensive smell of ash and adrenaline. Specks of rusty powder coat ever surface the eye can see, and already the lieutenant can feel the drug blanketing him like a hoard of locusts. If he looks at Connor when the flickering florescent lights above hit a certain way, he can see the same goes for him too. Row after row of fold-out tables line every wall and span out across the entire space, stuffed boxes of drugs sitting carefully atop them. Even more unboxed bags of red ice are stacked carefully underneath them on the floor, their plastic packaging neatly wrapped in a thick layer of shiny masking tape.

There’s enough drugs here to overdose thousands of people or take out the city of Detroit in a matter of weeks. Now, thanks to months of late shifts and excruciating investigations, that won’t happen.

Connor’s right eye twitches wildly for a moment before going still. “I’ve notified the captain. They’ll arrive in approximately four minutes and thirty-two seconds depending on traffic.”

 The news is music to Hank’s ears. Prematurely, he allows himself a brief minute of recollection, taking in the crumbling brick walls and damp smell in the air as a cause of celebration. If anyone has any reason to celebrate the takedown on the biggest red ice dealers in the city, it’s Hank Anderson.

Meanwhile, Connor is anything but joyful. The android’s thermal sensors are useless in such a confined, warm environment; the only other way to check for remaining suspects is to inspect every square inch of the building. His scans provide him with a dozen possible points of entry and exit of the hideout, and another handful of hiding spaces any number of perpetrators could be occupying. Four minutes and twenty-seven-twenty-six seconds is a long enough span of time for any hidden adversary to make a run for it, and with only two armed officers on the premise the chance of losing valuable information is almost certain.

With two hands on deck, splitting up is a possibility if they want to cover more ground. However, the old wooden staircase leading up to an ominous dark abyss leads Connor’s thoughts in equally dark directions. Being a police officer comes with high risks, which Connor has always known and accepted as a part of his life.

The risks he’s willing to throw Hank into, especially now, are few and far in between.

“I’m taking the higher level,” Connor whispers. “Do you have enough ammunition to cover the ground floor?”

“Yeah, I got plenty,” Hank rasps back, his eyes wide with a new glow that wasn’t previously there. He’s not entirely present, and Connor knows this. Another reason the older man should stay downstairs.

Without even a nod, Connor takes off towards the staircase, his steps light and precise. He has both hands on his revolver, a fretful yellow glow to his LED, and an anger he can’t quite shake.

There’s a low moan the weight of plastic-covered metal is placed on a warped wooden step, and Connor holds his non-existent breath for a full 3.75 seconds before continuing onwards. Waiting before taking each seventeen steps may be overkill, or it may not be long enough. Connor isn’t willing to let his opinion stray either way.

The moment his gaze breaches the top of the staircase, Connor has already scanned for the five closed rooms, the three broken windows, and the trapdoor leading up to a closed-off attic all on the second floor. His feet step onto the landing with the same amount of caution one would use tiptoeing around a landmine. He takes one quick glance down the hall to the left, taking in the thin trickle of water falling from the ceiling, before turning his sight to his right.

Immediately, he takes notice of the pale white light emanating from underneath the farthest closed door. Any good cop, especially one with the entire Detroit Police Department rulebook downloaded in their brain, would know the first action to take before traversing any further would be to call for backup. There’s a perfectly capable cop just below him, one Connor trusts with his very life. It would be effortless to get Hank’s attention.

Instead, Connor’s LED continues to spin its faint orange glow, and just as it turns blue he takes his first step down the hall.

Concurrently, Hank follows the maze of temporary tables, sidestepping bags filled with red powder as he makes his way further along. The sight leaves him sick and yet puts a spring in his step. Memories of past crackdowns and a sterile hospital room flash through his thoughts, the latter later overtaking the former. This case has worn the whole precinct ragged, Connor and him especially. Nothing like personal matters from the past and present to muddy the waters of a perfectly good pond, if said pond was actually filled with a shit ton of drugs.

It’s not the end of red ice dealings in Detroit, even less of an end for the entire United States of America. Miles of progress still need to be made on all sides of the matter, and even then overdoses and deals gone wrong will pop up like a chronic migraine. Many cops will end up with a certain case file about red ice on their desk in the future, but a hell of a lot less will turn up after tonight.

One small step for America, one giant step for this sector of Detroit. It’ll be enough to put Hank to sleep tonight.

It’s of course after this short inspirational thought process that Hank feels the need to cough.

When trying to get the jump possible hidden drug dealers, it’s wise to be as silent as possible. Sure, Hank could tuck his face into the crook of his arm, or better yet just try to ignore the frantic itch crawling up his lungs. Unfortunately for Hank, his body is currently working against him in more ways than one.

Of course he coughs, and of course it’s as loud as a motherfucker.

Which is the exact word Hank uses to express his shock during his violent coughing fit as one of their suspects jumps out of their hiding spot to attack him.

Hank barely has enough time to grab the suspect’s wrist before they can plunge a shiny silver blade into his torso, and even less time to catch his breath before he’s fighting for his life. Despite both humans being armed, a shoving match ensues. Hank’s old, sickly body quickly begins to lose the fight, his movements and hurried punches too slow to make any headway. It takes only minutes for the suspect for completely overpower him, shove Hank to the ground with a knife to his throat, and take a bullet to the chest right as Hank’s head hits the ground.

Both broken humans lay unconscious on the red-stained floor, one dying too fast to be saved and one dying at a snail’s pace.

The commotion of the fight echoes up the stairs as if it had been put up to a loud speaker. Connor’s audio processors latch onto Hank’s rapid gasps and low grunts, and just as he turns to run to his partner’s aid the door at the end of the hall opens.

Connor looks back just in time to see a man of medium build wearing dark clothes raise his weapon and fire two individual shots at him. The pain never hits, because androids cannot feel pain, but his body collapses all the same.

His kneecaps were hit. That’s what his scans are screaming at him as the man advances. Connor aims his gun somewhere in the general direction of the suspect, fires, and hits. But the man reaches him regardless. He uses his superior strength to push the gun out of Connor’s grip and toss it down the hall.

The gun lands against the warped wood with a janky _clank_ , and that’s when Connor calls for help.

“Hank! _Hank!”_

A gunshot goes off downstairs. A heavy silence follows.

“ _HANK!_ ”

Connor’s LED goes dark red as all of his thoughts suddenly turn straight to _Is Hank okay Is Hank okay Is Hank okay_. His mind is taken completely out of the fight, making it easy for the man above him to grab a fistful of his artificial hair and smack his head into the wall. His thirium levels are fluctuating a mile a minute in the corner of his vision, but all it’s really showing him is that he’s losing blood _fast_.

He needs to think. Needs to focus. He’s no good to Hank dead. He has to live.

The man smacks his head into the wall again, this time leaving an indent in the drywall. Connor feels the man reel back for another swing and uses the momentum to brace his arms against the wall. He flings himself backwards, hoping to take the attacker down with him and they both go sprawling.

There’s an elbow against his throat once they land and a fist already swinging down for a blow, but all Connor sees is the gun laying a fair reach away from his grasp. He keeps one hand on the man and holds out his other one towards his weapon. A fist collides with his plastic cheek as he uncurls his fingers, desperate for a fighting chance within his grasp. The same fist hits again, and his fingertips grace the handle of the gun just _barely_ -

A bang goes off, the sound overwhelming every sensor in Connor’s body before settling out into a fine ringing. His fingers curl back into his palm, his body going slack as every reading in his vision fades out into nothing.

He forgot about the other gun. He forgot about the other gun.

He’s not sure what’s wrong with him. Something’s not right with his scanners. He’s begging for answers on his condition, but nothing is coming up. He’s in the dark.

His limbs of steel stay limp as he commands them to move. When he opens his mouth to simply gasp for unneeded breath, his lips part but nothing comes in.

The man holds his still smoldering gun up to Connor’s face and sneers. He says something to him, a taught no less, as blood spatters from his lips. Connor can’t hear him. He can’t feel the droplets of red land against his broken skin. When sudden bursts of gunfire explode above him he doesn’t even hear Fowler’s booming voice. He does see his attacker fall to his side like a sack of bricks, however.

Help has come for him, for Hank, but the last thing Connor can feel is himself slowly slipping away. He barely has any control over himself anymore, just the fluttering of his eyelids and his rotary function. No emergency stasis cycle seems to be coming for him, so Connor spends his last moments of consciousness accomplishing two tasks.

First, he sends a final message to an android halfway across the city.

Then as his vision gives out, he thinks of Hank.


	2. Wake Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank wakes up. Fowler catches him up to speed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOT DIGGITY DOG the response to this fic has blown me away. I've never written something with this big of an audience right off the bat so I hope the rest of this fic holds up to any and all expectations! Thank you to everyone who gave kudos and left a nice comment last chapter :D they made my day
> 
> Little bit of a shorter one this time, but the ending felt like a good place to stop to me. That just means you all are getting more chapters if you think about it

**June 27, 2040**

**3:47 AM**

 

Hank regains consciousness a little past three and a half hours after receiving his concussion. He doesn’t know the exact amount of time that has passed since he woke up, of course, but he does know his whole body feels like utter shit.

Basic motor functions come back to him slowly, starting with his rather cloudy eyesight and finally his ability to move the muscles in his body. The world around him comes into focus, turning a white abyss into painted walls and startling structures of wires into everyday hospital equipment. His ears catch onto the beat of his own heart rate emanating from the monitor to his left, its tempo set at a pace he’s not entirely sure he’s comfortable with. A heavy chemical scent hangs in the air, stinging Hank’s nostrils as he struggles to take his first proper deep breaths in far too long.

Breathing leads to more coughing, his throat sore and his gruff voice even harsher than normal. He puts a hand to his mouth and finds a dozen or so IVs follow with it. The tug on his skin doesn’t hurt, but just knowing how it stretches against his skin makes the experience even more unpleasant.

It should go without saying Hank Anderson is not a fan of hospitals.

When his second coughing fit of the day ends, Hank finally takes notice of the hunched figure sitting in a chair next to his hospital bed. For a brief moment, he mistakes the crisp police uniform to belong to his faithful partner, but once he shakes the drowsiness out of his system he realizes he’s locking eyes with the captain of his precinct.

“Fucking hell…did I really get hurt that bad?”

Fowler straightens his back, the wooden chair beneath him groaning underneath his weight. “Well, you did almost crack your skull in half,” he half-scolds. There’s a sympathetic layer to his voice that takes all the bite out of it.

“Shit, really?” Hank mumbles. He tries to reach for the back of his head, but the IV tinges too much under his skin for his liking. His fingers barely brush the ends of his hair before he lays them back at his side. The seriousness of the situation loses him, due to how sudden his state is now compared to earlier this morning, and he laughs.

“You think this is funny, Hank?”

“Nah… _well-_ “

“Thompson arrived at the scene to find you laying in a puddle of your _own blood_ ,” the older of the men suddenly snaps. “Not to mention you failed to inform me of your sudden diagnosis, which the staff here was grateful to fill me in on. Got an explanation for me about that, hmm?”

Hank leans back down onto his bed with a long pronounced, “ _Shiiiiit…_ ”

“You shouldn’t have even been out in the field tonight! I could give you a disciplinary for withholding information from me!”

“It’s my health, not evidence for a fucking case! Jesus.” Hank squeezes his eyes tightly; any and all loud voices are threatening to split his skull in half. Where’s some pain medicine when you need it?

“You don’t have the authority to tell me what is and isn’t my priority, Lieutenant,” Fowler growls, a grimace stretched across his face. “I take the safety of all my people very seriously, and to not only put yourself but others at risk is _not acceptable_ under _any circumstances_.”

 _Go fuck yourself,_ Hank wants to say but makes his one and only wise decision of the night to keep his mouth shut. Not only does he know he’s wrong on the matter, but cussing out his boss is a sheer fire way to get himself fired. He settles for a lower quip, something he can say without causing too big of a firestorm.

“Christ, you sound just like Connor.”

Fowler goes still beside him. It takes a moment for Hank’s pulsing brain to realize what the drop of his facial features and reason for being here really imply.

“Wait…where’s Connor?”

The captain sighs once again, running a hand over his face in place of an answer.

Hank sits up in a hurry, a wave of nausea following him that he forces himself to swallow back down. “Jeffery, where is Connor?”

Fowler shakes his head. “Hank-“

“ _Jeffery-_ “

“He’s _alive_ , don’t worry. Not doing well but…”

Hank grips the side railing of his bed like a crutch, leaning in as close to Fowler as his body and his IVs will allow him to. “W-What…what happened to him? How bad is he?”

Fowler looks up to meet his gaze once again, his eyes holding a pity that makes Hank truly sick this time. “I’m not really sure how to explain it. You know I know as much about androids as you do-“

“Just _tell me_.”

“He was shot twice in the legs, right above there his joints are supposed to connect I guess. Somehow the bullets got lodged somewhere they weren’t supposed to and now he’s leaking blue blood nonstop. Then…he got another bullet lodged in his head-“

The world around Hank begins to sway. His eyes fall to the floor as he begins to blink rapidly. Fowler reaches over and puts a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“I told you he’s alive, don’t pass out on me!”

“Keep talking. Don’t…fuck-just keep going. What else…?”

The hand on Hank’s shoulder pushes him back gently, making him lay back as if to prepare himself for the worst of it. “The android doc told me he goes into stasis whenever something’s wrong with him-“

“Right, t-that’s right…”

“Well, he apparently didn’t go under all the way. His body’s trying to pump out thirium that he doesn’t need, but his brain’s…his brain isn’t awake or something. I’m not sure what to tell you except he’s-“

“Braindead.”

The word burns Hank’s mouth on the way out, as if it’s corrosive with a deadly acid that threatens to stop the beating of his heart. It holds the same weight of sorrow as a fateful conversation he had with his ex-wife nearly a decade ago. Only instead of an android delivering the news to him, it’s an old friend. The company should do something to ground him, to assure him not everything in his life is currently going to hell.

But all he can think about is how the presence of a different friend would be much more affective.

“The doc told me he’s stable for now. She’s already looking into ways of preserving his programming in case-“

“I get it…I-I get it,” Hank cuts him off. A lead ball sits on his chest, crushing his ribs at an agonizing pace. “I…I need to see him.”

“You’re not getting out of here for another day or so.”

“Fuck, Jeffery _please_ -“ Hank grabs Fowler by the folds of his police jacket, pulling the captain towards him before he can pull away. His voice sounds fragile in his own ears, and he can only imagine how broken it sounds to others. “I need to see him before…God, I said some shit before we went in and I gotta…I have to be there, even if he doesn’t…”

He hasn’t felt this trapped since the day he was hanging by his seat belt, screaming his son’s name as he lay against the underside of his car hood unresponsive.

Many people who have worked under Captain Jeffery Fowler know him best by his strict, no-nonsense demeanor. No amount of pleading can change this man’s mind it seems, and yet as Hank begins to fall apart below him a crack appears in his cold exterior. He places his hands over Hank’s and gently pries the man off him.

“I’ll see what I can do. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll get you to him if I can.”

 _Thank you_ , Hank wants to say, but there’s a hot lump in his throat that chokes out his words. Instead, he nods slowly, rasping out a quiet, “Good.”

“Until then, I’m ordering you to get some rest.” Pushing the chair he was previously sitting on against the wall, Fowler begins to make his leave. His tall figure leaves a dark silhouette that blankets Hank’s lower half as he walks under the light panels hanging from the wall. Just as he puts a hand to the door leading to a world of sickly patients and stricken mourners, he looks back to Hank with a familiar harsh gaze. “I’m ordering you off the case until you get the treatment you need, Hank. Or any cases for that matter. Connor’s gonna need you now more than ever.”

Then he leaves, the soft click of the door lock ringing in Hank’s ears for hours and hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that feeling when your boss guilt trips you for not being there for your robot son


	3. Terrible Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank makes a choice. Markus leads. Morris makes an entrance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all continue to be super sweet and supportive readers and I still can't thank you enough. This fic has gotten so much love in such a short amount of time!! Hopefully my oc doesn't heck it all up :/ (I promise she's only around for plot reasons. Hank and Connor are the main focus.)

**June 27, 2040**

**6:21 PM**

 

It’s not until Hank is in the back of a squad car later that day, grateful for the many strings Fowler was able to pull get him out of that hospital _way_ earlier than he should have been let loose, that he realizes the back of his head has been shaved off.

Such a small difference to his appearance shouldn’t phase him as much as it does. He’s need a haircut for years now, the monthly trims at his nearby barber shop just not seeming to do enough for his ever-growing locks. The heat that gets trapped in his thick grey strands stick to the back of his neck nearly every day at this point, making any long day on the job even more unbearable. He should see this as a light in his dark world, or a mini blessing.

Instead, he’s bothered by the rest of his head that was left unshaven by the doctors, and the trail of stitches traveling all the way from the base of his skull to the very edge of his natural part, and the strands that are still hanging down keep falling into his eyes, and the buzzed parts are way to scraggly and itch his tender skin and just-

It’s too much, and yet it’s nothing compared to every else burning around him.

From the moment Fowler first left his hospital room, Hank’s mind has been a runaway train of worst case scenarios and fretful prayers to a man he hasn’t talked too in a long, long time. His own well being matters as much to him as the head of broccoli rotting in the back of his fridge, which is to say not at all.

Connor’s is a whole other matter entirely. The kid has barely started to get the hang of deviancy, making strides in forming relationships with androids and humans alike. For him to die so suddenly…

 _He’s not dead_ , Hank has to remind himself. He repeats the fact over and over to himself until he finally starts to believe it. Braindead isn’t the same as actually _being_ dead; it’s just that everything that makes up Connor’s personality and being is gone forever.

God, somehow that is so much worse. How the fuck did he make it _worse?_

He should just stop thinking. His most dangerous enemy has never been red ice dealers, cyberlife, life’s everyday assholes, or anyone else. Just his big, dumb brain.

In a time of moral dilemma, a part of Hank’s subconscious that must not hate him yet hammers a list of positives to the forefront of his mind. He doesn’t have a lot going for him, he’ll easily admit, but there a few gems on there. Fowler promised to send someone to feed Sumo watch his house for the indefinite amount of time he’ll be away, which gives him some sense of ease. He’s got a pocket of Tylenol Fowler also slipped him that’s giving him the brainpower to think anything coherent passed all the pain. Besides those two tiny, almost minuscule blessings, Hank feels like he’s sinking farther into the darkest depths of the ocean.

At least he _is_ thinking somewhat positively.

The storm hanging over Detroit has been hitting the city in spanned-out bursts of rain ever since last night, and as the officer behind the wheel pulls into Jericho the rain begins to fall once more. Of course their not driving into an old abandoned tanker that was blown up years ago; the previous safe haven has turned into a series of buildings granted to the androids after the revolution, many of them once serving as office buildings. Hank himself has only been there a handful of times (Connor of course the one living under their roof who goes there almost once a week), but he knows there’s not just a bunch of androids sitting around in office chairs there. Connor’s friend Robo Jesus was able to turn the cubicle-ridden floors into proper housing units and android repair centers. It’s an apartment complex slash hospital for those who need a place to stay or wish to start android families of their own in a familiar setting.

(Hank remembers Connor telling him of one of his little android friends whose girlfriend recently moved back to the US after escaping to Canada during the revolution. They have a little girl together, Alex or Alice is her name. He can’t really remember even though Connor has reminded him countless times.

He wonders for a split second if Connor would ever want to start a family of his own, but that thought would only open a can of worms he could never tackle in his current headspace. He shoves the thought deep, deep down and pretends it never crossed his mind.)

The squad car skids slightly against the slippery asphalt as it’s put into park. Thin droplets of rain trail down the inside of the car door as Hank steps out, his clothes still damp from his earlier encounter with the weather. Tilting his head back, he gazes up at the tall building before him, many of its lights shining down at him like a lighthouse in the middle of the sea. He’s where he needs to be.

“You need help going in?” The officer in the front seat asks him.

Hank absent-mindedly pats his jacket pocket, a note from Fowler with the floor number tucked safely inside. “Nah, I…thanks.”

He closes the door swiftly behind him but almost trudges up to Jericho’s front doors. The splashing of the puddles beneath his feet overpowers the rumble of the squad car’s engine as it drives farther and farther off into the distance. Hank blinks rainwater out of his eyes, his remaining hair clinging to the sides of his face as if they were glued to his skin. His body aches from the cold and sways in the breeze, the lack of blood cells traveling through his veins making him weaker than normal.

The pitter patter of the rain grows louder the closer he comes to the entrance, morphing horrifically from a steady beat on a triangle to a harsh banging of a drum. Hank’s heart pulses with each drop that smacks against his exposed skin. Each blow feels like it was meant to hit him, as if this is one divine being’s way to punish him even further for all the terrible things he has done.

The banging intensifies, his heartrate skyrockets, until finally-

-he steps inside the building and everything is silent.

Of the few things Hank can distinctly remember about the Cyberlife building (besides being almost shot of course) is the lifeless white walls and blinding neon lights. Everything in that hellhole was devoid of all life and creativity, and everything that walked inside had its own sucked out of it.

Jericho is the anti-thesis of Cyberlife. Every ounce of the safe haven has its own pop of color, most notably the painted murals on the walls. The many artistic androids who have passed through the same doors Hank just has have added their own masterpieces overtime, ranging from detailed landscapes to abstract figures. Bright hues of every shade under the sun bask their warmth onto the androids in the main lobby, all sitting on miss-matched furniture that is as equally unique as the art around them.

A familiar android turns to face Hank as he walks in, his shaven head and two different colored eyes standing out to the old man the most. He stands from his spot on a basket-woven chair, catching the attention of everyone else in the room. No one in the room seems to have their LED attached to their temple anymore, but Hank is sure if they were there all of them would be spinning orange. He can’t blame them; a soaking wet human with a puffy scar on the back of his head is sure to set anyone off guard.

 “Mr. Anderson…” Markus addresses him calmly. “You’re here.”

“’course I am,” Hank rasps. Hours without saying much was turned his throat into sandpaper. It’s amazing how long one can be lost on their own head. “How is he?”

Markus looks to the androids around the room, throwing them a reassuring smile before motioning for Hank to come forward. He falls into line with the android leader, his steps heavier but almost in perfect pace with the younger man. “Connor’s still with us. I honestly didn’t expect them to let you out so early. I heard about your fall.”

“It’s nothing,” Hank dismisses him. They turn down a hallway only populated by a few mid-day stragglers, all mingling between the many rooms as they go about the end of their day. “When are they expecting him to wake up?”

They soon come to meet an elevator and Markus takes his time clicking the button to the upper floors before answering Hank’s question. The carpeted floor beneath their feet shakes slightly as the metal box makes its way to the ground level. “They’re not sure.”

The short-tempered attitude embedded within every old man’s personality begins to take ahold of Hank. He narrows his gaze and thickens his tone. “Who’s _they_?”

“Dr. Morris, and the other trusted android surgeons we have on staff here. They’ve been trying to find a solution ever since he arrived, but…there’s not much they can do.”

Hank’s empty stomach churns. “But they _can_ do something?” It’s incredible how a three-letter word is the only thing keeping him together.

Markus’ face twists, his stoic expression turning fearful. “They’ve…th-they’ve run me through the options…but when I heard you were on your way I decided it was best if you made the call. You are his guardian after all.”

“We’re just partners,” Hank is too quick to say. “Just…that makes me sounds too old for my own liking. But there’s a chance he could pull through, right?”

There’s a booming ding, and the steel doors before them drift apart to allow them entry into the elevator. Markus steps in first, followed by Hank, and with a push of a button the elevator begins to rise once again. It takes three floors before Hank realizes Markus does not intend on answering his question, so he asks a new one.

“You trust these docs?”

Markus looks him dead in the eyes, his own gaze just as set as Hank’s. “With my life, and every other android’s in the city. If anyone can save him, they can…they will.”

 

**June 27, 2040**

**6:47 PM**

 

The following complicated series of colorful hallways Markus leads Hank down all blur into a massive, drug-trip of a tunnel. He barely remembers which directions they took or how he’ll ever get back to the elevator to leave, but the lead ball at the bottom of his stomach is telling him he’s not leaving Jericho for a long while.

All the rainwater that has soaked into his clothing has turned to hard cement, making his movements almost tar like despite the way his insides are working a mile a minute. His lungs tingle with each breath and frankly if Hank doesn’t go into cardiac arrest before he even reaches Connor he’ll be proud of his broken body. He tucks his hands in and out of his pockets, his fingers twitching uncontrollably no matter what he does. A pulsing wave of agony is slamming against the shores of his skull, the pain killers wearing off just as soon as they started to work.

They reach a door. Just a normal door. It’s the type of door you expect to face before walking into a big meeting. Tall, wooden, and imposing. There’s a sign posted on its front, the words 6TH FLOOR REPAIRMENT ROOM spelled out for Hank in a big enough font it prints itself in his memory. It’s the first detail of the night he’ll truly remember, and the rest of them are about to come.

A sudden silence passes before Hank recognizes Markus isn’t making any moves to open the door himself. Hank swallows back a lump in his throat, puts a shaking hand to the door handle, and pushes it open like he’s walking straight through the Doors of Death themselves.

He might as well be, because as soon as he gets a clear enough view of the room Hank is certain he has finally arrived in the little piece of Hell carved out just for him.

Blinding florescent lights stab at his retinas immediately upon entry, with extra penetrating light also coming in through the overheads placed around the center of the room. A panel of monitors displaying various statistics completely covers one side of the room, while the rest if filled with medical equipment and stare robotic parts. Random hands and limbs reach out for Hank as if to drag him further down the River Styx, and they would succeed if he weren’t currently rooted into place where he stands.

Connor’s lifeless body is laid out on an android operating table, his chest and lower half completely exposed expect for his undergarments and various patches of blue blood. His legs have been replaced for two wide tubes sucking out liters upon liters of blue blood like straws. A similar tube has been hooked up somewhere inside his chest, seemingly pumping in just as much of the chemical as he’s currently losing. All three lines lead to a gigantic tank off to the side of the room, its insides sloshing as it continues to gain and lose its contents.

The worst of it comes into view as Hank takes his first uneasy steps into the room. He reaches the table, scanning every inch of Connor’s torn body before landing on his face. The back of his skull is completely gone, a million different colored strands of romex-covered wiring stretching out a trail to the wall of monitors. One lone wire diverges from the path to connect to a mangled piece of metal positioned carefully on a separate metal table. An LED in the center of the damaged component flickers with heavenly light erratically as there is a bullet lodged just to the side of it.

Hank feels himself stumble forward, just barely gripping onto the operating table in time to keep himself standing.

“God… _Connor_ …”

He feels a sturdy hand on his shoulder and eyes Markus’ reflection in the exposed metal of Connor’s joints. “Do you need to sit down? I can bring you a chair.”

The muscles on Hank’s face spasm uncontrollably as another part of himself begins to chip away. “N-No…no. Fuck, _fuck_. Jesus Christ…Oh God, can he hear us?”

“He can’t hear anyone, sir.”

“Right…that’s right…” Hank raises a hand, unsure of where it’s going to land. He can’t tear his eyes off Connor’s chest, his teal-plastic heart still beating despite there being barely anything left to keep alive.

The boy before him is too old, and Hank is far too tired to go through this kind of loss again. Even now before he’s given a full explanation of the situation at hand, he is already slipping, craving a beverage no one is going to pour him, a gun that’s been missing for months. Here lies Connor, dead on the operating table and Hank who was supposed to go before him-

“Hey, keep your hands away from the patient _please!_ ”

Hank reels his hand back with a start, the shout hitting his eardrums like a gunshot and causing him to grimace. Both standing men turn to the open door behind them, the slightly warmer air of the outside hallway hitting them like the harsh winds of a sandstorm. A tall, tan women in blue-stained scrubs and lab coat stands with one arm slammed against the open door and the other tangled in a clear pipe similar to the ones sticking out of Connor’s body. She braces the door open further, her loose dark curls not currently pulled back into the bun atop her head getting caught in the rims of her glasses. The pipe slips partially from her grasp and catches the edge of the door as she tries to drag it away. With a huff, she pulls it free and wrangles it back into her grasp.

“He has…enough…exposed area to possibly…damage something else, so…I’m going to have to ask you, sir…to please keep your hands to yourself- _fuck_ , this is heavy.”

The woman in scrubs trudges all the way to the thirium tanker before dropping the long pipe with a _plop._ She takes a few deep breaths, wiping sweat off her forehead Hank can’t see and leaving a trail of blue residue behind. “Can’t believe I let…the others take a break right before _that_ ….” A few deep breaths later, she reaches her hand high across the table and over any parts of Connor’s body she could easily bump into. “Dr. Morris. I assume you’re Connor’s relative?”

Hank just about has his hand up to meet hers when she says this, and pulls it back for the second time in however many minutes. “ _Partner_. Just partner. We work for the DPD.”

Morris’ eyes just about pop out of her skull. “Ah…a cop.” Her composure does a complete 180 before Hank’s very eyes, her back straight and her fatigue instantly gone. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Captain.…?”

“Lieutenant Hank Anderson. Hank is…Hank is just fine.”

Markus treks across to the other side of the table, his feet light as he moves past the pipes running along the floor. “There’s no need to worry, Dr. He’s only here for Connor.” He grabs one end of the clear pipe Morris is currently trying to pick up herself and holds it up above the floor as she begins to hook it up to one of the tank’s many nozzles.

Morris’ expression moves almost like a seesaw. “I can’t afford any legal trouble right now,” she tries to mutter quietly. “If I get any lawsuits filed against me because this guy doesn’t make it-“

Markus clears his throat rather loudly.

“I mean, no it’s fine. I’m fine. He’s welcome to stay.”

No more than a handful of minutes later, a second pipe is attached to Connor’s chest and four tendrils of thick silicon become the only materials keeping Connor’s body functioning at all. Hank watches as tiny air bubbles find themselves trapped in the flow of the blue rivers before him, swirling together to form tiny tornadoes. A pair of noisy rubber shoes make their way over to the wall of panels, and when he turns to follow the quiet afterwards Morris is following a string of binary across one of the screens with her finger. The light glares heavily against her lenses, casting a dark shadow over her face.

“Thirium levels are fluctuating, not unlike before, but he’s stable.” She looks to Hank, and he feels her eyes on his even if he can’t see them. “Now, it’s time for my least favorite part of the job.”

Hank nods curtly. “Tell me what you can do.”

Morris sighs. She moves to stand directly behind Connor’s head, the serpent of wires slithering along to her left. “Alright, I’m gonna be straight with you Hank…there’s only really two ways we can handle this from here on out.”

Already Hank does not like Connor’s odds.

“The easier option is to…well, to put Connor out of his misery-“

Hot anger rushes from its boiling pit in Hank’s stomach into a massive boom. “ _What?!_ ”

“Dr.-“Markus cries to intervein.

“ _Hell NO!_ Fuck that noise! No one is putting anyone out of their misery-Don’t _touch me_ , kid! If you as so much try to shut even one of his systems down-!”

“ _Mr. Anderson!_ ”

Markus’ voice booms, the floor beneath their feet quaking as the sound waves bounce against the walls. There are many reasons why the android made such a strong revolutionary leader, and this is one of the many examples why. Hank’s temper shrinks back down to a low simmer.

“Listen to what Dr. Morris has to say. This is still your call; no one will lay a finger on Connor until you give us the okay.”

It suddenly dawns on Hank that he has been placed in a high position of power, a position normally granted to family members and loved ones in a typical hospital setting, which this is. The life of an android he has found himself trapped in a tight bond with is placed upon his shoulders, and he is scared shitless. He’s a man that barely cares enough about his own life; now he’s expected to decide the fate of another’s.

The thought rocks him into silence, prompting Morris to continue her explanation. “Lieutenant, your partner has a bullet embedded in his memory cortex. His brain, so to speak. The chances of him pulling out of this at all are slim at best. If we don’t want to drag out this out without trying something that fails…I can deactivate him right here and now. He won’t feel a thing. It’ll be as if he died in his sleep.”

A peaceful death, one without any flash or big huzzah. The idea shouldn’t settle as poorly with Hank as it does.

“What else can we do for him?”

Morris’ lips press together into a thin line. “Well, what _I_ can do besides that is…how do I put this simply? I could transfer what I can salvage from his cortex-his basic programming, his memories, everything that makes Connor _Connor_ -and try to put it in a new one. Then after that, I’d have to successfully sync up the new cortex into his body, make sure it boots up properly, and wait to see if his body starts to heal itself or not so it stops pumping out thirium nonstop.”

She pushes a bushel of curls out behind her glasses and releases an anxious breath. “It’s…it’s risky and he has a higher chance of dying than making it through this and I really, _really_ don’t like going in with so much against me. But…if you want to give it a go, I’m legally obligated to follow through with your wishes.”

Hank’s brain grinds down the two options to a fine, readable dust: Let Connor die now, or drag out Connor’s death even longer. Sure, there is a slimmer of hope at the end of that second rainbow, but when has Hank ever made it to the pot of gold at the end anyhow? If he were in Connor’s shoes, and Connor in his, he would hope for the former, simplest option that is bound to reap the quickest results. His life isn’t worth all the effort and wasted time.

But this isn’t Hank’s life. This is Connor’s. This is the life of an android who has so much left to learn, who has barely begun to grow out of his shell and embrace what small amount of good the world has to offer him. He’s a child, essentially, who couldn’t have been made any longer than three years ago.

A child, just like Cole was. If this were Cole, this wouldn’t even be a question for Hank. He’d jump for the slightest chance to see his son pull through this, and Connor shouldn’t be any different.

“Do it.”

Morris just stares at him. “Do…what? You have to verbally tell me what you want.”

“The second one. _Just-_ ” Hank cuts himself off as his voice beings to waver. The mist forming in his eyes is driving him insane He won’t break down just yet. He’s not ready to. “ _Save him_.”

“That’s what I intend to do,” Morris nods. Her voice is less than optimistic, but not even a second after she speaks she’s off to work. She rushes over to a case of equipment off to the side of the wall and buries her arms in elbow-deep. “Markus, go grab my crew from downstairs. Tell them they’re working overtime tonight.”

“Of course.” The android makes it halfway out of the room before coming to a halt. As Hank looks back to Connor below him, he approaches the older man quietly and places his hand on his shoulder yet again. “He’s going to pull through this, Mr. Anderson. I know he will.”

Hank looks to him, his eyes glossed over far past the point of hiding them. “You can call me Hank.”

Markus offers him a small smile, letting his hand slide gently off of Hank’s shoulder before quietly making his leave. With the world’s attention focused elsewhere and Dr. Morris lost in her preparations, Hank carefully takes Connor’s hand into his own. His skin meets cold plastic and he is scared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> morris: let me be straight with you  
> *me knowing full well i never make straight ocs*: hehehehehehe


	4. Collision Course

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank tries to rest. Markus gives some news. Morris complicates things.
> 
> Oh, and Simon is there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you all are so sweet and supportive. I'm a bit worried about this chapter but I'm so excited about what's to come after this! This is where the story really kicks into motion I feel like.

**June 27, 2040**

**8:13 PM**

 

In the many years Hank has been alive, he has woken up in some weird-ass places. Whether his unconsciousness was brought on by a late shift, alcohol intake, or some other shit, he has chalked up quite the list over time. Some of the standouts on said list include the Jimmy’s Bar bathroom, a Denny’s booth despite not remembering ever going to Denny’s in the first place, and now the carpet floor of the new Jericho building.

The first thing Hank sees when he opens his eyes is the face of a fish. A gigantic, orange koi with its mouth open wide as if to swallow him whole. There’s a shadow casted over Hank’s face, and already he can feel one of the creature’s flippers flapping against his shoulder.

“Sir? Are you alright?!”

Delirium feeds into sudden terror as Hank shoots up, shaking off the hand of the android currently leaning over him. His cheeks sting from the imprint of the carpet strands left behind and his brain is nothing but a pain soup. Parts of his skull must have melted off because everything above his neck is on fire, causing his vision to swim wildly for several seconds before he properly comes to. When the world around him stops to shake, he locks eyes back to the mural of the koi fish across from him and sneers.

“Aw fuck. My damn head.”

“It, uh…looks like you might not be feeling your best right now,” the android comments hesitantly. Hank looks to him with a groan, his senses interpreting his fair plastic skin and striking blue eyes as a flashlight being shown directly into his eyes. He winces and looks away. Too much color and not enough pain meds in his blood stream make for a very cranky Hank.

“You wouldn’t happen to be Hank Anderson would you?”

“One and only,” he grumbles before turning to face the android once again. “Fuck…how long have I been out here?”

The android offers a small, fretful smile. “I’m not sure. I just found you sprawled out on the ground and wanted to make sure you were alright. I assume you’re waiting on Connor?”

The name slams the weight of Hank’s current reality right into his chest. Air halfway through his lungs catches in a strangled gasp. “Shit. _Shit_ , is he alright? Is he okay? Fuck, I didn’t mean to fall asleep but they kicked me out and-God, what if he’s dead. Damn it, I should’a been there. I should’a-“

A hand falls delicately on his shoulder. “Easy, sir. Easy. Connor’s okay. The last Markus told me he was still undergoing surgery. Besides, it looks like you needed the rest.”

Hank nods slowly, processing all of the androids words with the utmost care his partially-swollen cranium can give. “Okay…I guess I do look like shit.”

Despite not having any blood vessels, the android somehow manages to visibly pale. “Sir, I didn’t mean to imply-!”

“Calm down, buddy. Didn’t mean ta put words in’ya mouth. Sorry…and cut it with that _sir_ bullshit. What’s it with everyone tryin’ ta call me sir? Name’s Hank, so _call me_ Hank.”

The android nods. “Okay… _Hank_. I’m Simon, and I think I should find you some place better to sleep than the floor.”

Already, the effect of an ailing body and fucked-up sleep schedule have put Hank back under their spells. He can feel his body swaying underneath his whole weight, the floor beneath his lower half seeping into the consistency of a water bed. He is one with the waves, drowning in the tides despite the need to stay afloat. Going under without consequence once doesn’t mean he won’t sink to the bottom a second time. Connor is still trapped on rocky shores-

One last wave crashes into Hank, sending him too far down into the depths to cling to the wide-awake world around him. His body is demanding sleep, holding his own demands at knifepoint until it gets what it wants.

There’s some kind of instinct fighting the fatigue with everything it’s got, something Hank hasn’t felt in many painful years. He choses to ignore it, and consequently allows Simon to help him to his feet and lead him down the hall.

With much stumbling on Hank’s part, they reach a vacant room filled with various office chairs and a few small cots. Simon continues to carry Hank until they reach the nearest cot, which the older man sinks into effortlessly. The springs underneath the canvas surface will no doubt be hell on his back, but by this point he is too far gone to complain. Tension clinging to his ailing joints dissipates as he succumbs to the will of sleep.

 

Of course, instead of getting the needed rest his body demands, Hank dreams.

He dreams of snowfall, of crisp air and condensation flowing out between his lips like smoke from a cigarette. The bite of the temperature outside turning his skin tough and gets his teeth chattering. It’s a harsh winter’s day in Detroit, as he thinks it has been for months now.

His spine rattles from the uneasy terrain below him and the hum of the car engine vibrating through his seat. He hears the echoes of electric guitar and bass drums he knows his son isn’t supposed to be listening to, but the complaints of his wife can easily be drowned out by a cold beer later. Hardened vinyl warms underneath his soft grip, his true focus on a higher voice to his right.

There’s a child there, one he cares very deeply for who should be in the backseat but to hell with safety rules. Hank feels a ghost of a smile spread across his face, the reason of why it’s there could be answered in many ways. The wonders that will come out of a child’s mouth.

White rains down steadily from the sky only to be brushed aside by two frosted window wipers. There’s an absence of hair covering his ears, turning the cartilage brittle and sensitive. He only has to bear through the harsh conditions of the outside world for just a quarter of a mile more. Already, his behind can feel the cushion of another seat waiting for him at his humble abode.

Then the child falls silent. Hank turns to look at them, only to see Connor. Connor, who doesn’t fit this picture at all, and yet the delicate whites and stark greys surrounding them fit him like a glove.

“The truck is coming,” the android says in a voice that is not his own. “You’re going to crash.”

Hank tries to speak, but instead of his gruff voice his body blares out a horn. He can’t close his mouth or cut himself off, even when he takes his hands off the steering wheel to do so. The car stays on its current collision course, a dark shape appearing out of the snowy abyss and growing in size.

He knows what is about to happen; he’s had this dream millions of times. He’s lived it. Just never with Connor.

The truck is almost on top of them, and every time Hank tries to put his hands back on the wheel it repels his grip like two sides of the same magnet trying to come into contact. Time is rolling by far faster than his tires can skid, and yet Hank feels frozen in place. His heart is hammering in his chest and his throat is raw from the name trapped behind the deafening boom of his bleating lungs.

Just when their bumpers meet, the spell is broken and Hank throws himself onto Connor.

 

Instead of landing on sturdy plastic, Hank meets thin air as he wakes up in a cold sweat.

He manages to hold back a gasp, only because a part of him fears ever having to hear that damned horn. The cot shakes under his weight, the springs creaking as he swings his legs over the side to let his feet reach solid ground. Instead of ice he is met with the carpeting he fell asleep on however many hours ago, and he welcomes their comfort with open arms.

One breath in, one breath out. Then repeat until the fatal drive is father back in his memory.

However, before the truck disappears farther down the road again, there’s a knock on the door. The rapping has very little force to it, clearly trying to maintain a lower volume.

“M’ awake,” Hank pushes himself to say above a whisper. His shaky voice proves loud enough for Markus to deem it appropriate to poke his head in before stepping inside. The android’s expression has a weight to it that turns his blood colder than the roads ever were that day.

For someone who doesn’t require sleep, Markus looks tried, almost _defeated_.

“How’s Connor?”

Then Markus smiles.

“He’s out. Not awake, but…so far all his programming is transferring successfully. He’s going to make it, Hank.”

It’s like the earth is taken off Hank’s shoulders. His body shakes with a relieved sigh, an overwhelming sense of absolute _relief_ washing over him. He puts his head in his hands, hiding a grin that’s spreading across his face.

“Thank God…oh, thank Jesus….”

Markus chuckles. “You can come see him now if you want.”

Hank is positive he’s never stood up faster in his life. “Shit, really? Well fuck, l-let’s go. Let’s…let’s go.”

 

**June 28, 2040**

**3:38 AM**

Connor is just as lifeless as the last time Hank saw him (or has ever seen him debatably,) but this time the tangle of wires trailing from his exposed skull fills the older man with comfort. Plugged into the damaged memory cortex is a brand new one, silver and shining like a Christmas tree. There isn’t a drop of thirium to be seen on his synthetic skin, whether because it was all wiped off or has since evaporated it’s still a blessing to be without. The pipes pumping the blue blood our and into the android are still attached, but it’s a small price to pay for a chance of Connor living another day.

If Hank keeps his eyes off them that is. The situation continues to drain his very life away from him every time he acknowledges they’re not quite out of the clear yet.

There is also the permanent look of discomfort on Connor’s face Hank’s inner demons have to use against him. He puts a hand to the android’s shoulder and tries to will the traitorous thoughts away, reminding himself androids can’t feel physical pain. He has to wait for that crease between his eyebrows to subside on his own.

God, Hank is so, _so_ tired of waiting.

“So far everything’s easy sailing,” Morris informs him as she walks up from behind. Hank spares a glance at the doctor before turning back to Connor, not yet comfortable with the what-ifs that face him if his gaze strays too long. The doctor looks as if all her energy was zapped away from her, the bags under her eyes seemingly drooping down to her cheekbones. She puts a hand to her mouth to cover a yawn, but her attempt at courteousness seems half-assed at best. “Not’ng warg with the transf’r so fah. _Ahh_. His programming is syncing well with the new cortex, and with luck he’ll be back online in a week or so.”

Like an outdated web browser, it takes Hank a moment to fully compute what the doc is telling him. “ _Huh?_ Um, I’m sorry. A _week?_ ”

Morris nods, her head bobbing up and down as if she were submerged in water. “Moving an entire android’s makeup takes time, Lieutenant. It’s a lot of long nights and several cups of coffee. I can’t do anything about it.”

The warm optimism in Hank’s chest begins to die out. He feels his heart sink further down, not quite at his toes but getting closer with each little bit of bad news that comes his way. Seven days or more is a lifetime to wait for someone’s life to cling on to their dying body. It has only taken hours for Cole to let go of his-

Hank changes his course before he reaches whatever destination that thought would have taken him to. A week plus is an eternity to sit anxiously through, no matter what the occasion. With little choice in the matter, the need to find a crutch and lean on it is dire.

An arm gently nudges his and Hank looks to see Markus pointing over in Morris’ direction. Sure enough, when he turns the doc has a tablet held out to him, it’s screen shimmering with a bunch of tiny letters Hank’s less-than-perfect vision can hardly make out. “This might help tide you over until then.”

Hank cautiously lifts his hand from Connor’s shoulder in order to properly grip the tablet. He brings the glowing slab closer to his face and realizes it’s listing off an infinite amount of statistics. However, anyone can interpret a loading bar when they see one and the light blue on at the top of the screen is dying for his attention.

“What’s all this crap?” he questions.

“This _crap_ ,” Morris is quick to mock as she explains, “is the list of all the programs Connor needs to have transferred over to his new cortex. The little bar at the top tells you how much he currently has in his new noodle, and how much more he has left to get crammed in there.”

Sure enough, there’s even a little percentage at the end of the bar. The 11% sits oddly in Hank’s stomach, but he takes it as a small victory nonetheless.

“So once this little iPhone charger image is a solid blue, he’ll be back on his feet?”

“No, but he will be awake,” Morris assures him. “You’re more than welcome to hold onto that while we wait. I’ve got, uh, seven more I think?”

“But please be careful with it,” Markus adds. “We use these for all androids, and while we are government funded-“

“I get it. I won’t brake your iPad,” Hank grumbles. His bark suddenly loses its bite as holds the tablet closer to his torso. “Thank you.”

Morris gives a tired grin. “There’s more than just a loading screen to look at.” She takes the tablet without warning, Hank’s hands itching to grab it back from her. But just as quickly as she has it, she’s handing it right back. On the screen is a long list of files, all of them listed with a date and a tiny random image.

“If you tap on that little arrow in the top-right corner, you can go through his memory logs.”

Hank lifts his eyes up to meet her, concern hardening into his features. “Wait, so I can…?”

“Go through his memories like you’re watching Netflix, yeah,” she explains plainly.

“Doesn’t that seem a little, I don’t know, _invasive?_ ”

Morris shrugs. “Beats me. I’m just the doctor. You’re his relative.”

“ _Partner._ ”

“Right, sure. It’s just a neat feature I wanted to point out to you. And hey, think of it as a comfort instead of an invasion of his privacy if you want. Play back some of your favorite moments with him, remember the good times. It might help, who knows?”

Hank’s fingers search for a power button and soon find one. He turns off the tablet and tucks it into his armpit. “Thanks…but no thanks. I’m not interested.”

“Your choice, I understand,” Morris nods again. “Well, if you two would excuse me, I have a shit-ton of binary to read through.” With that, she carries herself to the wall lined with monitors, finds herself an office chair, and collapses on the spot.

 Hank can feel Markus wince beside him. “I’ll, uh…make sure her staff wake her up in a half hour or so.”

“What an…interesting doc you got there, kid,” Hank remarks.

“She’s abrasive, maybe,” Markus agrees, “but we’re lucky to have her. Are you planning on spending the day here, Hank?”

There’s a gravitational pull he feels attaching him to Connor, the urge to stay by his partner’s side and protect him from the many uncertainties he can’t control. Then he remembers his responsibilities as a home owner and a dog owner he has to uphold.

“I gotta get home. I’ll be back later if I can but…shit, I don’t wanna go.”

Markus offers him a kind smile. “I understand. Let me call you a cab.”

“That’d be great,” Hank thanks him as gives Connor’s shoulder one past pat. When he makes his way down to the lobby, he forces himself not to turn back.

 

**June 28, 2040**

**4:15 AM**

The moment Hank sits on his couch, Sumo is already in his lap. His loyal companion to the end, the dog must have sensed something was off because he refuses to leave his owner’s side. Despite the obvious shower and change of clothes Hank needs, he finds himself surrendering himself to his pet’s company and sinking further into the comfy piece of furniture.

He still has the tablet on him, the bar reading Connor’s progression threatening to give him a heart attack every time he looks at it. The constant worry of the percentage at the end of it never growing eats away at him. Morris’ explanation was too brief for his liking, her words too casual. He could sense the woman’s devotion the moment she burst into the operating room, but he would never had noticed if he hadn’t come face to face with her.

He brushes off his fretful thoughts and forces himself to look away from the screen. It’s all so much and Hank isn’t sure how much more he can handle. He reaches for the power button, but his blind aim misses its mark and pulls up a familiar log of memories.

He shouldn’t. Hank knows he shouldn’t. What is he going to tell Connor when he wakes up? He went through all his memories like he was watching a damn soap opera? No, there’s no way that conversation will ever go well.

Finding the power button, he turns off the tablet and sets it aside. He can’t do it. Watching the world through Connor’s perspective will just be opening fresh wounds. He needs sleep, and maybe a beer or two before he’d even consider opening one of those memory logs.

As time passes, Hank’s morals begin to unravel. The curiosity is only growing and Hank is too beat down to defend himself.

Technically, he never promised anyone he _wouldn’t_ go through a memory or two.

“Screw it,” Hank curses as he picks back up the tablet, turning it back on, and tapping the first log he sees.


	5. Blank Canvas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank watches. Connor stutters. A familiar face makes an appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I REALLY HOPE THIS CHAPTER DOESN'T SUCK PLEASE FORGIVE ME IF IT DOES

**June 28, 2040**

**4:21 AM**

 

MEMORY LOG #13764

DATE: JANUARY 15, 2039

7:43 AM EDT

 

Barely a second of time is spared for Hank to run his tired eyes over the bolded print before it vanishes into a thin, white line. The line expands to no more than a centimeter before splitting itself in two separate halves and flying to opposite ends of the screen. Where there was once inky darkness is now the very scene he finds himself in the present: his vantage point on the couch. The sun is hanging in the same spot, offering its warm yellow hue as a natural light to fall over his furniture.

The screen does dark for a moment, almost as if one black frame had been shoved into the feed. It’s not until it happens again a few minutes later Hank realizes he’s viewing this all from Connor’s perspective, _literally_. He’s not sure why he expected to be recorded any differently; it’s not like androids were built with a camera positioned over their shoulders.

A blink or two more and suddenly, Connor’s vision shifts quickly to the left, the movement jarring. Hank can already tell he’s going to get motion sick if he watches these for too long.

When the shot stills, Hank sees…well, himself, and that’s even more jarring than the shaky camera style Connor is going for with his own personal home movies. This memory takes place only a month or so after the revolution, meaning he doesn’t look completely like the sickly creature he is today, but…it’s still fucking weird. Oh god, he looks too much like his old man. That is, if his old man had gotten himself a bigger beer belly and hadn’t gone bald before his forties.

This is exactly why Hank lets Connor cover up the bathroom mirror with his little, colorful sticky notes. The less he sees of his ugly mug, the better.

“Ready to head out?” Oh _no_ , hearing himself is even worse. The gruffness of his voice comes out crystal clear, and not even the slight sound buffer of his thumb covering one of the tablet’s speakers can stop the sea of chagrin churning in his gut.

“Yes, Lieutenant.” As much discomfort as it is to hear himself, Connor’s voice cuts through Hank like a rusty cleaver, hacking away at what little solidarity he has left. Connor lifts himself off the couch, the world rising off its axis in the process. It only beings Hank into a clearer perspective, and when Connor makes his way over to him he can almost count the amount of pours he has on his face.

Hank watches himself sneer. “You can cut it with that Lieutenant shit, okay? You’ve been calling me Hank for ages now. No need to backtrack.”

“I’m sorry, Lie-Hank.” Hank doesn’t need to see Connor to know his LED must be spinning yellow. “I only assumed since we were returning to the precinct to work together, I should resume referring to you as-“

Hank cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “Doesn’t matter if we’re here or there. I’m just Hank, like you’re just Connor. Don’t ya think we’ve moved long past that now?”

“I- “Connor pauses for a moment, his vision tilting slightly downwards. “I suppose you’re right Hank.”

Hank smiles warmly in the past and the present. He can picture the faint crease in Connor’s cheeks, the tug of his light freckles across his skin as he entertains the thought put before him. The little knowledge he does know about android components is slim, but he still can’t believe they don’t radiate light like the kid does whenever he smiles.

Sumo comes trotting lazily behind Hank’s legs and Connor’s attention perks immediately. The dog stops just as the android kneels down to pet him, his hand coming into the frame as it slides its way between the patches of heavy fur.

“You be a good boy Sumo,” Hank says as he walks out of the shot. Light shines in from the right of the camera and he can see his own shadow grow to stretch across the hardwood tile. “C’mon, Connor. We better get a move on.”

This day is nothing but a blur for Hank now, the only real point of interest his mind recalls being the context of its importance. He watches as the two of them leave the house and pile into his car, himself turning on Knights of the Black Death like it’s just any other day. Roads blend together with the traffic, their twists and turns morphing into a colorful stream of gasoline-fueled fish.

They don’t talk much on the drive, and while they may have been content to sit in idle silence then it burns Hank’s ears today. Minutes upon minutes of quiet are wasted instead of being spent to say all the words chewing at his insides like mice. There must be thousands of seconds they spend each and every day, going about their normal routine and not saying a god damn thing.

Maybe he could find the beauty in that, but all Hank can think about is the 11% of Connor he’s currently holding in his hands.

The log goes about their day, following from Connor’s point-of-view as they check into work. Past Hank grumbles something about the AC, and Connor hums politely as a response. Damn, he’s lucky the kid puts up with his sourpuss attitude all the damn time. Hank’s already sick of himself and it hasn’t even been an hour yet.

Fowler calls them into his office and-oh, _oh,_ Hank remembers this moment perfectly. The glance Connor gives him before they step inside, the smug grin on his own face as Fowler welcomes them. A strange ache settles on Hank’s sternum as he watches for the second time as his old buddy from the police academy hands Connor his official badge, the light outside sparkling against the polished metal.

He doesn’t see the rare beam that spreads across Connor’s face, but Hank remembers the absolute joy that filled the glass office room that day. The DPD’s first official android detective, Connor himself.

The pride that still fills Hank today causes a lump to rise to his throat.

Then the screen freezes.

A play button appears in the center of the memory, completely out of place and slapping Hank with a fresh reminder of the time that has passed. There’s a marker in the bottom corner telling him he’s been watching for sixty minutes, which must mean every memory log is chopped up into equally long sections. He closes out of the memory and finds himself back at the long list of dates he has yet to even traverse. New dates have been mixed in with the previous ones since he started watching, and a quick look down the list is telling him he won’t be finding any logs with the same date as Connor’s first day on the job.

Well that fucking sucks.

Regardless, Hank clicks on another random memory log, the bittersweet relief outweighing the guilt of rummaging through his partner’s mind.

 

**June 28, 2040**

**6:29 AM**

 

MEMORY LOG #14009

DATE: March 7, 2039

1:36 PM EDT

 

“Connor…you okay there buddy?”

Connor’s gaze remains trained on the white, texture-less wall before him. It’s the same scene he’s been staring at for almost the past hour, and consequently so has present-day Hank. The pursuit to advance technology has poured in trillions of dollars, and yet Hank can’t fast forward to the point he isn’t watching his partner stare at a fucking wall. It’s agony, and yet he couldn’t look away if he tried.

No, literally, he can’t look away because Connor won’t fucking _move_.

“I am…calculating the most effective way to go about my mural,” Connor answers slowly. While Hank can’t see his LED, he’s sure it must be smoking at this point.

There’s a laugh of pure disbelief, and finally, _finally_ , Connor turns to face the man behind him. The man isn’t wearing an LED himself, but a vague memory of Hank’s own reminds him he’s met this android before. If only he could remember his name. Jacob? Jamison? Johnny?

“I’m starting to think I was not programmed with any artistic abilities, Josh.”

Eh, he was close.

Josh (not Jacob, Jamison, or Johnny) chuckles at this. Smudges of dry paint litter his body, with the most notable being the streak of orange on his forehead and the splotch of green on his chest. “It’s okay, dude. Not everyone’s a natural prodigy…unlike SOME PEOPLE!” the man suddenly raises his voice.

“I NEVER SAID YOUR MURAL WAS BAD!” Markus’ voice comes echoing down the adjacent hallway.

Josh looks to Connor. “He said enough,” he mutters quieter. “Listen, if you can’t think of anything to paint, just come back later. I’ll mark this spot as yours and it’ll be here when you’re ready.”

Connor is still for a moment before staring back at the white abyss behind him. At this point, Hank’s eyes feel like they’ve been bleached from the inside. His retinas require a different shade in order not to be permanently blinded.

What could be so imposing about a blank canvas? Surely Connor has something to base his mural off. Two years have passed since the fateful day of deviancy, and with time comes experience. With time comes _emotions_. His fifty-five years of existing have certainly come with their own handful. Hank knows for a fact Connor is chock-full of feelings underneath his stoic exterior.

Then Hank remembers this is a Connor who has only been alive- _truly alive_ -for no more than three months. Most human babies spend their first three months of life adjusting to their reality, not quite gaining any advanced motor skills until farther down the road. Theoretically, this would mean Connor is a baby who began with all his developed motor skills, but no sense of direction or self-morals to direct what he is supposed to do with the power he holds.

If Hank was handed a violin and asked to play a Beethoven piece right off the bat, he would never be able to do it. It’s not impossible in the case of him thinking it would be, it would be impossible in the case of it actually being impossible.

No wonder Connor is at a loss. The kid has never been asked to express himself. Even today, he has difficulty picking out a set of new clothes at the department store.

It dawns on Hank how bizarre it is. He can picture a mural painted by Connor, filled with dogs and fish and maybe even those weird green vegetables he keeps trying to get him to eat. But that wouldn’t be Connor’s mural; that would be a mural of how Hank views Connor, and even then, those three things don’t even cover his own bases.

The question isn’t what will Connor paint. It’s who is _Connor?_

When Connor doesn’t answer Josh, the other android makes the decision for him. “Listen, I gotta go find some more paint for the second floor, but I’ll come back and leave a marker here, okay? I’ll see you around buddy.”

Connor nods, and when he looks to Josh a minute later he’s already gone. His eyes fall downwards to the clean paintbrush in his hands, absent of any paint or sense of a course to take. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he places the paint brush down on the ground by a set of open paint cans and takes a few steps back.

He’s standing in the lobby, fairly close to the main entrance Hank was standing in a little past twenty-four hours ago. Despite his attention being anywhere but the walls that night, he can’t believe he missed the large blank space on the right of the entrance. Flanked by a vibrant display of ocean waves and a field of magnificent tulips, Connor’s missing statement piece stands out plain as day.

Connor sighs, a long, drawn-out breath that knocks Hank’s away. In the two years they have spent living together, he doesn’t believe he’s ever heard the kid release any sound as disappointing as this. He’s struggling, and it burns Hank alive to know he can’t do anything.

Hell, Connor never even _told him_ he was asked to do a mural. He’s not sure what kind of advice he would have given, but at least he could have said _something_.

Vanquished, Connor begins to make his way out of the lobby. He manages to pass a few androids completely absorbed in their work before coming to a complete stop.

Standing like a deer in the headlights in the entry way is an android Hank remembers quite well, or at least the model. The blonde hair, blue eyes, and striking features swirl up a dozen thoughts about a mountain retreat and the prick who still lives there. Instead of a blue dress or a too-revealing bikini, she’s wearing winter clothing, like any sensible person in Detroit would be this time of year.

It’s a Chloe.

And suddenly, she’s walking towards Connor at a surprisingly brisk pace.

Connor barely has time to flinch before the RT600 grabs hold of his right arm, left exposed from the elbow down by his rolled-up sleeve. Her skin seemingly melts away, revealing her true plastic form underneath. Connor’s own skin begins to disappear, and before Hank can be given any obligatory seizure warning a series of images flash before him at light speed.

Snow, red water, a man sitting idly in a plush chair, poured scotch, snow, camera flashes, mobs of reporters, snow, mirrored faces, a tall, steel door, heavy, heavy snowfall, a gun-

Kamski with Connor, Kamski handing Connor a gun, Connor pointing the gun-

Locked eyes, a forest of dark brown burning at its roots.

Connor giving the gun back.

Then the Chloe pulls away and the world goes back to being at a standstill.

Her face is locked cold, her jaw set and her eyes piercing through Hank as he stares back at her through Connor’s. All the hidden tournament of the life spent high in that frozen fortress emanates off her like radiation. Her pain is palpable, to the point Hank wants to grab his car keys and take another trip up to that cursed mansion. A man who plays God’s role only damages those around him, and the steel barrel of that revolver stands poignantly in her memories for a reason.

“I never thought I would get to meet you again in person,” she finally speaks. Her words are even but coated with something Hank can’t quite identify.

“I…” Connor goes quiet. Hank can’t blame him for being lost; he doesn’t even know what to think himself.

The Chloe notices this and gives him a small smile. “I guess I should thank you. For everything, not just…that.”

Connor blinks rapidly for a moment. “Oh. There’s no need to…to thank me. I wasn’t myself back then.”

Her smile widens. “Neither was I.” She holds out her hand again, this time waiting for Connor to meet her grip. “I still go by Chloe, though.”

He takes her hand. “And I still go by Connor.”

“Some things never change, do they?”

“Maybe not.” Hank can hear the smile in his voice.

Chloe releases her hold first before observing the work going on around them. “I came by to see if there was still room to paint something. Do you know…?”

It must take Connor a second to realize she’s referring to him for assistance. “Uh, I believe we’re out of space downstairs, but there should still be plenty of space on the upper floors.”

Hank holds his breath when Chloe’s gaze lingers on Connor’s empty space, but soon enough she looks back to him. “Could you show me the way?”

“I-If you’d like.”

Did…did Connor just _stutter?_

Wait, did his partner just _stutter_ in front of a pretty girl?

A million parental fears rush Hank all at once, and his anxiety only worsens when the memory log ends just as they fall into step together.

Connor never told him about Chloe, or his _stuttering_. All of his, plus the mural, is new to Hank. No, not just news; this is breaking news. This is new territory for both of them, but more importantly this is terrain Connor has never attempted to trek before.

Or has he already trekked it? It’s been over a year by now. Of course, the _stuttering_ could mean nothing, but for Connor it could mean everything.

All Hank finds himself taking away from it all at 6:30 in the morning, with a pulsing head and an aching back, is the endless wondering of why he was left in the dark about any of this until now.


	6. White Lilac

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank breaks. Morris makes a discovery. Connor needs some space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER: One character has a near panic attack. Please be careful while reading buds!! You're safety comes before any fic
> 
> Sorry for the longer than usual wait between chapters. I went through a rough mental health patch recently and my writing was suffering because of it. I took a short break to fix some things irl and now I'm back with the longest chapter to date! We're getting deeper into the plot every chapter, so hopefully you all still like what's to come.
> 
> The theme for this chapter is P!ATD's Pray for the Wicked album, bc that's all I listened to while writing this
> 
> Thank you for the support as always!

**June 29, 2040**

**3: 27 PM**

They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. Hank is dying, and yet he’s witnessing Connor’s life instead.

Most of what he sees is mundane, and yet completely captivating in its own way. He watches hour-long segments of dog walking, some walks before the sun has breached the tops of their neighboring houses and some right as it’s sinking below the earth’s horizon. Sumo’s shadow is always wider than Connor’s, but the clicking of the android’s loafers drowns out the Saint Bernard’s dog tags just as easily. They travel the pathways of their sul-da-sac, passing the house with the overgrown rose bushes and the street lamp that never stops flickering. Every crack of the pavement beneath them is familiar to Hank, and more than once he finds himself making an appearance in these daily routines.

They settle into friendly conversation, or easing silence, the kind that makes Hank want to tear himself apart. Wasted time is all it is to him.

He witnesses various trips to the grocery store, and many pitiful attempts to improve Hank’s diet. Arguments over his health seem to be at the core of their relationship, and yet Hank’s the only one standing now. When his grumbling stomach eventually pulls him off his spot on the couch, he reaches for the bag of grapes in the back of the fridge and tries not to think about it.

The better times outweigh the bad, despite how dark cloud that forever looms above Hank’s head. Movie nights after long cases show up every now and then, as well as office days spent rooting through case files. The feed is sprinkled with various trips to Jericho for who knows what, and Hank pays close attention to the white mural in the main lobby every time. Every time, it stands out perfectly in his mind as if it ran up to him in person and slapped him in the face.

A few important dates make their appearance later that day, just as the present-day sun being sits descent from the sky. The rainy night at Carlos Ortiz’ house, the scuffle at the Eden Club, the shitshow at Elijah Kamski’s creepy Bond villain mansion, and to top it all off before Hank’s body shuts down for the night is, of course, that day at the Chicken Feed.

It had been as cold as a rat’s ass, the peak of the day bringing nothing but chilly wind and a light from the sky that offered no warmth. Hank remembers how the snow crunched under his feet as he shuffled his weight around where he stood, time that morning passing slower than normal. The tense ball of energy lodged in his ribs back then is all too familiar to the one there now.

He hadn’t seen Connor since the precinct the following day, after he felt the rewarding crack of Perkin’s nose underneath his knuckles. Well, that wasn’t true. He had seen Connor on the news but seeing anyone you know on national television is hardly a comforting thing. As much as a successful message of peace may be, the dangers that follow change always follow.

There are nearly 700,000 humans in the city of Detroit, and many less after the ordered evacuation, but all of which have the capacity to maim any android they see walking down the street if they desire. Whether it’s legal or not has no effect once the actions take their course.

That said, Connor’s perspective of that day is quiet, almost peaceful. The streets he takes offer him nothing but a calming stroll, and if Hank didn’t know the date by heart he wouldn’t think of the memory log as anything over than a walk around the area.

Before deviating, Connor would walk as stiff as a board everywhere they went. He would act more, well, robotic. Now, Hank catches how his gaze shifts from hanging advertisements to groups of birds huddled together on overhead powerlines. There’s a certain fluidity that isn’t lost in the nostalgia of the moment, and a same kind of motion Hank finds himself viewing from with every new log that transfers successfully.

In the distance appears the silhouette that will soon take on Hank’s shape, and Connor’s pace quickens ever so slightly. His footsteps battle with Hank’s growing heartbeat as he comes closer and closer to the Chicken Feed, until finally he watches himself turn to face the android.

He smiles, and the tug of his lips against his frostbitten skin stings him in the present. A lightening sensation lifts Hank’s spirits, and though he won’t tell Connor what it is here, he’d like to think he’ll still have time in the future to do so. Connor’s smile only lifts him higher, and the only reason Hank doesn’t go flying into the stratosphere is because he pulls the kid in for an embrace.

Hank lived alone for years after his son’s death, his only form of companionship coming from his loyal dog and occasional bar outing with Jeffery. Besides the usual scuffle with suspects and Gavin Reed, he’s not one for human contact. A touch-starved old man such as himself has no reason to pull in for such contact now, and yet he’s reaching out his hand.

When Connor wraps his arms around him, it loosens the steel bolt hammered into Hank’s heart. A physical shockwave courses though his body, still leaving his knees shaky to this day. Tears well up in the corners of his eyes in the past and the present, and in both scenarios, Connor is facing away to spare him any shame.

It’s pride. Pride pride pride. A sin some might say but Connor has earned it. He’s earned the praise Hank never gives him verbally. For saving the revolution, for freeing so many androids, for bringing the city and the world closer to equality.

No, Connor deserves far more credit than making the world a better place. The world doesn’t deserve him in the first place and has hardly offered him a god damn thing in return for all the good he’s done. He deserves all that can be offered to him for all the little things he does. Walking Sumo every day, cooking meals he’ll never eat, doing laundry that is not his own, just being _Connor_. His needs fall into the background, and something venomous burns through Hank’s stomach at the realization.

It’s so late and Hank’s head has been split in half by a jackhammer and he’s so, _so sick_. Sick physically and of this shitty world he just can never escape. Bordered by the cushions of his couch, he crumbles into himself and lets his emotions get the better of him. He cries for the first time in years, finally letting the demons swarming in his brain have their fun. His body shakes as he racks out silent sob after sob, Sumo nudging his knee anxiously as he suffers with the rising moon.

The memory continues playing as he cries, his own words drowning out his shuttered gasps for breath.

_“Never pictured you as a revolutionary hero-type.”_

_“Well, I never pictured myself as a deviant either.”_

_“Heh…well smartass, let’s get out of the cold and head home.”_

_“Home, Hank?”_

_“What, ya think I’m just gonna leave you to wander the streets by yourself?”_

_“…no, I suppose not.”_

**June 29, 2049**

**9:48 PM**

Dr. Morris takes a sip of her third cup of coffee in the past hour. The bitter, black taste coats her tongue like tar coats a freeway, doing almost nothing to fight off her lingering fatigue except fortify her heightened heartbeat. At this rate, she’ll need to build one of her android colleagues hand defibrillators to revive her after her definite cardiac arrest.

It’s early by her standards, her body never seeming to shut down until early the next day, but two days of constant observation over her patient has worn her ragged. She’s just so grateful to Cyberlife for making the RK800 model a protype with limited public records on its components. The added challenge is always welcome and always improves her work ethic!

The door to the operation room creaks softly behind her, faint footsteps following afterwards. They grow louder and louder before the only sound in the room is coming from the sloshing of the thirium attached to Connor’s mangled body. Morris tucks two fingers underneath the rims of her glasses and rubs at her eyes.

“I’m too tired to turn around.”

“You haven’t left the room all day,” Markus informs her in a low tone. “I heard you sent your staff home.”

Morris groans, swallowing down an air pocket that rises from her chest. Her breath smells bad enough at is it; there’s no need to add any more offensive odor to the room. “Only the ones who don’t live here. Not much going on here to help with, anyway. Just…staring at code.”

Markus hums, unamused. “You should get some actually sleep, or I’m taking that coffee pot out of your break room.”

Morris’ swings her office chair so fast she’s surprised the base doesn’t snap off. “You _monster_.”

“It’s your choice,” Markus says with a shrug. He glances over at Connor’s unconscious form, his expression falling. “How much progress has he made?”

“Well,” Morris turns back to her monitor and types in a quick command with furious fingers. In an instant, the light-blue bar an older man across the city has been staring at for hours now appears. “Almost twenty percent of him is safe and sound in his new brain, but it’s slow going. Hey...can I just say fuck Cyberlife? Because fuck them, honestly.”

Markus tilts his head. “You _can-_ “

“I don’t know shit about this guy’s fucking model, and everything on their records keeps telling me he can check DNA samples in real time. I don’t need to know he has an oral fixation! They got sued by the government for how much and all they released is a list of their android’s kinks, are you god damn serious?!”

“Believe me Dr., we all have our issues with Cyberlife. I’m sorry you don’t have more to work with.”

Morris crosses her arms, one corner of her mouth digging into her lips. Her eyes fixate on a new batch of coding that appears on her screen, her sense of duty taking over once again despite her lingering urge to rant incessantly about the ex-android company and the millions of ways it can go fuck itself.

An infinite void of black text against her screen’s white backdrop swirls in her vision, but she has just enough willpower to keep herself from falling out of orbit. Nothing alarming stands out to her as she continues to read, the lines of binary gibberish signaling the future ahead of her is safe from any issues in the transfer.

That is, until something catches her attention.

A listing of all of Connor’s previous connections made in the past few weeks make their way form one memory cortex to the other, a series of dates hastily flashing across the screen as she traces the coding to its source. Hundreds of calls to Hank Anderson are listed out before her, with a few exceptions thrown into the mix. What tickles her curiosity is the call sent out early June 27, mere hours before she was awoken from a power nap in her office to operate on a certain RK800.

“Huh…”

“What is it?” Markus asks.

“Connor…somehow managed to send a message before he went under. Which is _crazy_ to me, because his cortex barely had the capability of keeping him _alive_ one he got shot. That’s some freaky shit if he has able to do-”

Markus leans in closer to the monitor, placing a hand on the edge of Morris’ chair. The weight is enough to push the doctor aside to allow them both room to see, but Morris gravitates closer as if her eyes were glued to the screen with permanent adhesive. “Who did he try to call?”

“There’s a model address right…there,” Morris says as she trails her finger along the screen. “It’s, ah…an RT600? The fuck?”

“Why did you swear after that?”

With a huff, Morris leans back in her seat, the impact knocking Markus’ hand away as she rolls backwards. “That’s the kind of model Elijah Kamski used to order from us-s-Cyberlife. I don’t know what he was doing with them but…the man is unsettling. Not many RT600’s ever made it out into the public, but I heard a new report a while back most of the ones he bought deviated.”

Markus’ posture straightens. “Do you think Connor was trying to contact _Elijah?_ ”

“Kamski has his own cell, believe me I know. The guy just _loved_ to stick his nose where it didn’t belong in my work. I doubt your friend wanted to call that creep on his deathbed, anyway. My best guess? He was trying to phone another friend. Got any idea who?”

A lighting storm of different emotions rages in Markus’ eyes, and when he blinks them away he only appears more lost than he was before. “I don’t know…but I bet Hank does.”

 

**June 30, 2040**

**7:14 AM**

The sirens call that is Connor’s indefinite stay at Jericho begs for Hank to leave for the android haven as soon as he wakes up the following morning, but being the emotional mess he is, he decides to watch one last memory log before departing.

To no one’s surprise, it turns out to be a terrible idea.

 

MEMORY LOG #14031

DATE: March 25, 2039

12:32 AM EDT

 

A wide, metal doorway stands open before Hank and Connor, though at the time of the recording Connor stands alone. Just past the threshold leading from one of the many painted hallways of Jericho lies a sight the older man never thought he would ever witness in a building full of political figures and revolutionary leaders.

It’s a fucking disco party.

Well, the disco may just be an aesthetic choice because the Carley Jae Jepson booing out of the tablet speakers certainly doesn’t match up with the era the shiny ball originated from. Multicolored streamers line the ceiling as if it were a rainbow Kentucky Derby, specks of light streaking through them to create a true purple (and many other colored) rain. Androids of all shapes and sizes fill the room almost to the brim, their bodies swaying to the music and their smiles so wide Hank’s afraid their faces will rip in half.

At the time, this would have only been a handful of months after the revolution. Countless lives were lost to bring all these joyful people, and yet not an ounce of sorrow can be seen in this picture. Hank himself remembers the news stories, the cases he worked at the time, and how up close and personal he got to fully understanding how much freedom truly meant for the deviants. His eyes, as well as the world’s, were open to the prospect of what it truly mean to be alive.

This log he finds himself watching now strikes true to what it looks like to be alive: dancing, singing, and enjoying _life_.

And Connor won’t move.

His partner stands as stiff as a board, his eyes not even daring a glance around the scene before him. There is no reflective surface nearby for Hank to possibly see his partner’s LED, but he doesn’t need to be a detective to know it’s not spinning a light blue. Connor’s blinks come far and few between, then in quick succession.

Suddenly, Markus breaks through the crowd, a goofy grin plastered across his normally stoic face. He raises a hand high in the air to wave, despite only being a few feet away from the doorway.

It occurs to Hank he doesn’t know if androids can get drunk, or if they can drink anything at all. He feels a weird urge to drag Connor away from the gathering until he gets a clear answer. But of course, this feeling is repressed and the past cannot be changed.

Markus rushes up to Connor and places his hand on his shoulder. “Connor! You made it!” His normal regalia, which Hank can only describe as priest robes made my Nike, have been replaced for a black V-neck and slacks.

Connor jerks in place, the sudden blurry movement making the space between Hank’s eyes ache. “I-I managed to find time to break away from work. I also wasn’t sure if gifts were required, but I thought it would be kind to bring-“

He proceeds to shove a large fruit basket into Markus arms instead of finishing his sentence. The fruit looks-oh. Oh, that’s not fruit. It’s packets of thirium.

Once Markus breaks away from his shock, it’s clear his smile is _only_ polite. His expression is so plastic-wait.

“Thank you, Connor. We’re always in need of…yeah, ok I’m going to place these down somewhere I guess. Why don’t you head on in?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Connor stammers. “Why don’t I…?”

Hank grits his teeth and struggles to hold in his own growing anxieties. God, this is sad. He watches in agony, absolute agony, as Markus flashes him a sincerer smile and leaves to put Connor’s blood basket away. Once again, his partner stands rigid and alone before an ocean of socializing androids. The waves of flailing limbs and stomping feet create a tsunami that seems to push him back even further.

Connor has done multiple arrest, successful hostage negotiations, and a full liberating of Cyberlife’s non-deviated androids. Yet, here he is tossed by violent tides only he can see and Hank can sense.

“C’mon kid,” Hank finds himself whispering under his breath. “You got this.”

Finally, as if waiting for the sea to calm for just a moment, Connor takes his first steps into the room. The entanglement of bodies parts to give him space, but only the bar minimum it would appear. The feed wobbles and sways as his partner is pushed and shoved around the deeper he goes. Apologies are sent his way, but the tune of some new pop song drowns out most of them. The clashing of electronic synthesizers, foot tapping, and loud voices create a booming current that threaten to blow out the tablet’s speakers.

A break in the crowd appears, a slight semicircle cut off by the line to a stage on the other side of the room. Hank spies a turntable manned by an android decked out in several glowstick necklaces. He wonders if the founding fathers ever threw raves in office rec halls.

Connor stumbles his way into the center of the open bubble. He looks to either side of him, even spinning in place once to grasp the full situation engulfing him. It’s a massive gathering, one Hank doesn’t remember hearing one iota about. He finds it impossible to believe the kid’s first party like this could possibly go unannounced, or even talked about afterwards. This was in March; Hank wasn’t doing anything in March. Hell, Hank hasn’t been doing anything significant for years.

It’s another twist to the knife previously plunged into his heart.

Hank is frustrated, and rightfully so in his eyes. However, more than anything, he feels sorry. As much little sympathy as he thinks he actually gives on a daily basis, he can feel himself suffocating along with Connor as the party-goers close in around him. The laughter, the movement, the sudden drops in the music-it’s a blender of chaos and his partner is the poor substance caught in the blades.

He wants to clear some space on the dance floor, pull out his badge and wave it around if he has to. But this is a memory he was never apart of, and a battle Connor never retold the story of.

There’s so much they need to discuss once Connor wakes up, and the list only continues to grow.

The screen does dark as Connor shuts his eyes and keeps them shut. Hank holds the tablet with a white-knuckle grip, praying the kid finds another out, or better yet leaves the party all together. Why would the leader of the android revolution want to throw a spring break-type party anyway? Why is his partner having trouble staying above the surface? Why was he kept out of any of this?

“Connor?”

Connor’s eyes open and there stands Simon, face just as fair and hair just as blond as it ever was. He’s decked out in a sweater vest of all things, especially considering how hot the room must be.

It’s at this point Hank remembers androids do not feel heat the same way he does. He’s only a little jealous. Alright, maybe a bit more so than he’d like to admit.

“Are you okay?” Simon asks as he steps closer to his partner. “Markus told me to find you. Your LED is-“

“I need space,” Connor states, almost demands.

“Do you need to leave or-?”

“No. N-No, I don’t want to leave…not yet. Just…space. Space please.”

Simon’s entire demeanor shifts in an instant, his previous concern now a hard-set determination to help Connor in any way he can. “Here, follow me. There’s space beside the stage and a fire escape close by if you need it.”

 With a beckoning hand, Simon motions for Connor to follow him through the crowd, the sea parting with a greater girth than before. In little time, they make their way to the stage where a open area awaits Connor near a tall tower made of latex balloons. Simon calls for someone in the crowd, and from the corner of Connor’s vision comes a lady carrying a foldable chair.

“Thank you North,” Simon says briskly as he takes the chair from her and proceeds to set it up near the stage. The moment his hands are off of it, Connor practically throws himself into it, the world falling with him. His vision is suddenly being pushed farther down towards the ground as the woman known as North approaches him.

“Keep your head between your knees. I know you don’t need to breath dummy, but it helps.” Connor closes his eyes and only her voice survives the darkness. “You gonna keep an eye on him?”

“I was planning to.”

“Want me to tell Markus where ya are?”

Simon gives a breathless laugh. “No, thank you. I already told him.”

“Of course ya did. Can’t keep you two apart for long.”

“We’re not _that bad!_ ” Simon protests but judging by the absence of a reply, North must have walked off. “Are you feeling any better, Connor?”

“Space helps…sitting helps…” Connor mumbles.

“Alright, just stay like that for now. I won’t leave your side.”

“T-Thank you Simon.”

“Has this ever happened to you before?” the other android asks. His voice is louder now, as if he’s kneeling directly next to Connor.

“Once…after I deviated.”

Hank just about falls off the couch. This is the second time this has happened? When was the first? Where was _he?_

“Okay. Well, you’re safe right where you are and-Markus!”

Connor’s eyes snap open as he leans back up, the screen filled to the brim with the faces of both Simon and Markus kneeling beside him.

“Connor, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have left you alone like that.”

“No, i-it’s not your fault,” Connor assures him, his voice thin as if he can’t take in enough air. “My stress levels are falling as we speak. I’m alright.”

“Your LED is red,” Markus tells him flatly. “Has this happened-?”

Simon places a hand on Markus’ shoulder. “I already asked him that.” He holds an entire conversation with Markus through their eyes, which Markus breaks off form first to turn to Connor.

“You can leave if you want to, Connor. This is just a celebration for Jericho, not another meeting with Congress.”

Okay, so now the kid’s been going to visit _Congress?_

Connor shakes his head. “I said I would attend, and I am. This…was an unseen incident.”

Simon frowns, pity dripping off his features. “You almost had a panic attack, Connor. We don’t want you to feel unsafe where you are.”

“That’s right,” Markus follows. The leader’s eyes pierce through Connor’s, poking at Hank like persuasive daggers. If he were Connor, he’d already be hauling his ass out of there, but once again Connor shake his head.

“I appreciate your concern, but I _want_ to stay. Though, perhaps I could keep the chair?”

The two androids smile empathetically. “Of course Connor,” Simon replies.

“Whatever you need.” Markus stands, taking Simon up with him. While Connor’s gaze follows them, Hank doesn’t miss how the two step closer to hold hands. “Send me a message if you need anything. We won’t go far.”

“Please don’t let me inconvenience you,” Connor frets, shifting in his chair.

Markus lowers his eyebrows. “Connor, we’re your friends. We care about you.”

“And we can still care about you while we’re on the dancefloor,” Simon grins.

With that, the two (clearly together) androids take to the sea of partiers and dive right in.

The next ten or so minutes is the same view of the party, with the edge of the stage taking up part of the screen Hank watches through. Simon and Markus can be seen not to far away, completely lost in the rhythm of the music and each other. They look over in Connor’s direction several times as they enjoy themselves, and even once North takes a glance at him as she walks by. She’s with another female android, this one with much shorter hair than hers dyed to be white. They too are hand and hand, and following close behind them is a cheerful child and a larger, equally cheerful man.

There can’t be much time left on the log by this point, at most just another half hour to go. A war rages in Hank’s mind, part of him wanting Connor to get up and dance and the other half wanting him to rush his ass back home. The party has already lasted for a century in his mind, and the unforeseen terror of the night has gone unspoken of for over a year. He can’t toss his hat into the ring and decide what he thinks is best for Connor, and it is becoming more apparent Connor does not want him to.

A horrible, horrible weight sinks to the bottom of Hank’s stomach as he wonders if Connor chose to keep nights like these away from him for a reason.

Hank sets the tablet down in his lap as he rubs a hand over his face. Another long day stands before him, with several doses of Tylenol and emotional whiplash already listed on an agenda. Every ounce of his body is decaying, and the fire in his head is blossoming into a thorny rose made of his cinders. He just wants the week to be over. He just wants Connor to come home.

When he looks back to the screen, a portion of the crowd has disappeared. Where many androids once stood has been covered up by the standing form of a familiar female android. Winter garments have been replaced with jeans and a lavender blouse. Her loose blonde hair has been pulled back by a grey headband, her blue eyes seemingly illuminated in the semi-darkness of the room.

“You alright, Connor?”

Connor blinks his eyes multiple times, his head dipping slightly. “I am fine. It is nice to see you again, Chloe.”

The worried edge to Chloe’s lips melt as she curls them upwards. “It’s nice to see you too, Connor. What are you doing over here?”

“I…My stress levels rose unexpectedly for a brief period of time. I was kind enough to have some friends who found some space for me.”

Chloe nods and Hank can sense the clear understanding of her movements. “You want another friend to sit with you while you calm down?”

Connor whips his head up. “My stress levels are steadily decreasing, and I would not wish to drag you away…from…”

By this point, Chloe is already sitting on the ground beside him, her neck just at level with his calves. “Your stress levels are still pretty high, Connor. You don’t have to lie to me.”

“You scanned me?” he asks, almost appalled.

“Your LED turned red when I walked over. I was just making sure you’re okay.”

Connor’s eyes drift from her to his lap, his hands rising to rest between the dip in his legs.

“Hey, Connor.” A third hand falls on his left thigh, Connor twitching at the contact. “If you won’t want me to scan you, I won’t. I was worried.”

“That’s alright.” His words come out painfully, as if he were shoving a nail through his foot. “Would you…m-mind-?”

Chloe’s hand flies away. “Oh, right. Sorry. I’m…not doing a very good job of comforting you, am I?”

Unexpectedly, Connor chuckles. It’s short and choppy but it’s a laugh nonetheless. “It’s alright. I appreciate that you are trying…Chloe?”

“Hmm?”

Connor looks back to her. “I never did get to see your finished mural. What did you paint?”

Chloe rolls her eyes with a slight grin. “It was dumb…just a bunch of flowers and butterflies, really.”

“That doesn’t sound dumb,” Connor comments with a shake of his head. “I like flowers.”

She laughs. “Well, thanks, but you should probably see it first before you try to compliment it. I couldn’t really, well, paint from memory so I had to look up a bunch of reference photos. Flowers are actually difficult to paint, unless I’m just a bad painter.”

“I doubt that’s true. May I ask you a question?”

“You already did. Two actually,” Chloe smirks.

Hank hides a laugh despite being the only person in his house.

“Ah-“Connor pauses, the joke hitting him like a boomerang. “Oh. I see. May I ask another one?”

“Of course.”

“Why flowers?”

A distant look passes over Chloe, her face falling ever so slightly. She looks downwards, the atmosphere of the party around them a complete contrast to her sudden change in mood. “I never saw a flower until after I deviated. Everything until then had just been…snow…I guess I was trying to…move on from that, except the flower I chose was just as white as those mountains.” She pushes a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “Putting that place behind me has been…hell.”

They both fall silent for a moment, letting the music fill the void left behind by Chloe’s words. Finally, Connor bridges the gap. “What kind of flower did you chose?”

Chloe looks to him, a small smile across her face. “White lilac.”

Connor must smile too judging by the small sigh he gives. “You’ll have to show it to me sometime. I have no idea how you’ve been since deviating…but I know how hard it can be to transition into a new life. It takes time. I’m…still waiting for that time to pass.”

Chloe raises her hand as if to set it back onto him, but quickly lowers it. “Thank you, Connor.”

The song booming through the stage’s speakers comes to an end, and following it is a slower song. One by one, androids find partners to link hands with and sway to the beat. Connor looks to the crowd as couples and groups grab each other by the hand or wrap their arms around one another. Markus and Simon can still be seen from a close distance, the two swaying in a full embrace. North and her friends have disappeared farther into the sea of people, but the child can be seen from afar sitting on the taller man’s shoulders.

“How are you feeling?” Chloe asks.

Connor turns back to her. “Decent.”

“I’m glad. So, want do you want to talk about?”

The world is held in a calming embrace as the song carries out, the words of two bonding androids floating into the air like a delicate breeze. Connor tells Chloe of his job as a detective, Chloe tells Connor of her job as a waitress and her dreams of becoming a journalist. Connor tells Chloe of his home with Hank, Chloe tells Connor of the apartment she’s renting. Not too much is revealed, but the bare minimum they reveal seems to gravitate them closer to each other. Connor is leaning forward in his chair, eating up each and every word she speaks.

It’s a nice, pleasant, conversation. Most importantly, it breaks free of the tremors of the party around them; their words are invincible as they pass from ear to ear.

They never join the others on the dance floor, but as the memory ends with Chloe laughing at one of Connor’s many precinct stories, Hank knows they never needed to. Their own private oasis was enough.

Once the log ends, Hank forces himself to take care of himself like a functional human being. He puts on fresh clothes, has a small breakfast consisting of exactly five grapes, and brushes his teeth in the kitchen sink to avoid staring at Connor’s many post-it notes. Sumo is fed a hefty portion of dog food before jumping up onto the couch, the old man too preoccupied with his lingering guilt to tell him to get down.

There’s just so much he must unpack, and so many more boxes of memories left to come. All the while, he wonders what he did wrong, why Connor kept him out of this separate life he’s barely scratched the surface of.

Hank has one foot out the door, ready to keep a look out for Chloe’s mural once he reaches Jericho, when his phone goes off. He puts a shaky hand into his pocket and whips out his phone. A single message flashes across the screen, and any questions as to how the person received his number seem insignificant to him.

 **_Markus:_ ** _When you arrive, meet me on the second-floor conference room. Room 213. Connor is fine, but we need talk._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bonus points to anyone who found the obvious reference to my rarepair


	7. A Message from the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank relays information. Markus makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5000 hits????? I'm screaming buds i don't deserve this really thank you so much
> 
> More plot, more twists, and more anxiety for me. We're getting into the thick of it and I'm afraid I'm gonna mess it all up. Your support always helps me feel more confident, though!!!
> 
> Also, I made a spotify playlist of songs that I feel fit White Lilac thematically. If you have any suggestions, feel free to tell me in the comments and I'll give it a listen! Link: https://open.spotify.com/user/xa8v35ygobonfjsdvb0qq8d57/playlist/6qXN1TbD5Jq926dOrdxtko?si=tYfqdr5hRJ6NXtDlOu02mg

**June 30, 2040**

**8:57 AM**

Not even Jericho’s designated conference room is spared of the rich tapestries spanning the entirety of the building. Instead of a drab, rather conservative room Hank was expecting to find himself in this morning, he is surrounded by murals of doves, barricades, and raised fists.

Maybe a little on the nose, and slightly intimidating to be looked down on by silhouettes of android political figures, but it beats staring at a beige wall while he waits for Markus to join him. Hank twiddles his thumbs in his lap as time passes, then stops when he realizes he’s doing so. Breaking several road safety laws (even when he knows damn well he’s in no condition to be driving himself anywhere) seems to have been a waste since he is only one attending the meeting.

Just Hank, himself, and him. And his unescapable thoughts.

 Memories that are not his own play out in his mind like cassette tapes on loop. He sees a world he was never apart of, or has any right to be apart of, and wonders if he’ll ever get the chance of an invite at all. Countless days long since passed span by in a matter of seconds as he briefly reflects on, well, everything. In a matter of seconds, he’s swarmed by venomous regrets as he tries to insert himself into every moment he wasn’t apart of. He’s pulling Connor out of that party, he’s talking to him more on their drive to work, he’s keeping them both outside the warehouse while they wait for backup-

He has to stop himself.  He needs air. Better, yet, he needs to move. There’s too much pent-up energy in his broken body to leave unreleased.

The office chair beneath Hank flies backwards as he hoists himself up to his feet and exits the room. Once again, he is faced with depictions of nature and symbolism that span for miles in each direction. A murder of ravens flock to his left, while an octopus drifts in the still depths of the ocean to his right. The cost of paint for all the murals must have been up the wazoo, but Hank is familiar with the revolutionary leader’s ties to a certain Carl Manfred.

Time continues to pass without any word from Markus, leaving Hank with the option to either go back and sit down or pace around the hall. He sides with the latter, taking in every brush stroke as he passes by mural after mural. He walks through tropical rainforests and bustling city streets, encounters wild grizzlies and delicate dragonflies. By the time he reaches the end of the hall, he has walked across the world in a matter of minutes.

It’s truly a feat. Most of the androids in Detroit have never been outside the city, or the US for that matter. Their paintings can be seen as self-expressive, future aspirations, or simply random in a close-minded sense, but few can be said to be from past experiences. And yet, Hank can sense the dedication put into each and every one of them. Each brush stroke is precise, each color chosen with purpose. Equal measures of joy, anger, and hope reach out and grab ahold of him, not letting him go. Not every mural depicts optimism, and Chloe’s falls right into that same category.

Hank is flabbergasted when he actually stumbles upon the blooming white flowers he thought he would have to search another dozen floors to find. He has absolutely no idea what a white lilac looks like, but it’s white so he figures his tired, enflamed brain shouldn’t have too much trouble putting two and two together.

It’s taller than he expected, with a stalk that takes up the entire space given for Chloe’s disposal and seemingly hundreds of snow-colored blossoms trailing up to the tip. Hank isn’t an artist, far from it, but an unsettling hunger can be seen in the way the petals fold and drift in the invisible cold breeze. They are pulling against the stalk, as if they wish to break away from it and run wherever the wind may take them. Desperation seeps into Hank’s skin like an itch he just can’t quite scratch. Maybe it’s due to the half-painted picture he has in his own mind about the mural’s owner.

Chloe has complained about she had failed to steer far from the color she had been surrounded by her entire life, but Hank can’t help but be drawn to the subtle greys in the shading and natural creases in the flower. The grey is almost close to a dark shade of blue, like a ripe blueberry or food coloring in its bottle.

Above all, it reminds Hank of the color of Connor’s old jacket, the one that mysteriously disappeared a few months after deviating. Connor’s world has always been grey, from mixed morals to uneasy days, and Chloe’s mural depicts just a sliver of what that world must truly have been like for both of them.

It makes Hank sick to his stomach.

“Hank?”

It’s difficult to tear his eyes away from the world before him, but Hank manages. He also manages to conceal the tears in the corner of his eyes with one quick wipe. Farther down the hall by the conference room is Markus, with Dr. Morris not far behind him.

“Uh, good morning, you two.”

“Did you get lost?”

“No, ah, just havin’ a look around. G-Good art y’all got here.”

Markus nods, his actions jarred even from a distance. “Well, we have a lot to discuss. We should get started.”

Hank swallows down the knot in his throat. “Right. Let’s do this then.”

 

By the time Markus is done informing Hank of Connor’s last act, his head is nestled heavily in his hands. He rips at his scalp with his fingernails, as if trying to pull this new reality out of his head. To no surprise it doesn’t work, and he’s left to grapple with the situation at hand like a worm fighting to escape a fisherman’s hook.

Even with his eyelids closed, he sees Connor’s lifeless body bleeding out in the warehouse, a permeant plea etched into his eyes for the help that would come too late. Hank can’t even begin to imagine the kind of desperation his partner must have felt in his final moments, or how he could live with himself if Connor had tried to call for him instead of Chloe.

He couldn’t. How would he ever be able to face another day knowing that?

“We, uh…we first met her at Kamski’s playboy ice castle,” Hank says, almost choking on his words. He pulls his head out of his hands and doesn’t bother to mask ever-growing emotions. Whatever he’s feeling can be felt already, and he barely has the energy to care. “That creep told Connor he’d give him the location of Jericho if he…if he killed her, but he refused. She’s shown up in Connor’s memory a couple of times after that day…I haven’t seen here again in person.”

Morris nods, with a dip in the corner of her lip. Her eyes are trained on the manila folder she’s flipping through in her hand, the pages causing a deafening roar as they are turned in her grasp. Markus sits to her right, directly across from Hank and equally lost in his own concerns. “What do you know about her? Do you have any idea where she could be now?”

“I told you, I haven’t seen her since then. She’s…she doesn’t haver her LED anymore, still chooses to by Chloe. She mentioned to Connor once she was a waitress, but that was over a year ago at this point.”

“She said this in a memory?”

“Yeah, it was at a party. A party here, anyway.”

Morris looks up from her paperwork. “Woah, that must’ve been before I moved in. That sounds dope.”

“It was d-Doctor, please, stay focused,” Markus scolds her. “Hank are you saying Chloe has been _here?_ She’s been to Jericho before?”

“At the party and during that day everyone was painting the building.” Hank leans forward in his seat with a choppy sigh, his lungs having trouble with even the simplest of actions. Everything he does takes twice the effort, and existing is its own pain altogether. “The newest memory log I’ve seen was over half a year old. She could be in others, I just… _fuck_ …”

Carefully, as if handling a bomb, Morris pulls a sheet of paper out of her folder and slides it across the table to Hank. “I was able to print out what he sent. We were wondering if you could explain exactly what this means.”

Hank eyes the paper down, the words printed in black, sickening ink that blur together into once, oily mess. The chemical making up its composition makes him lightheaded; the page must have been printed recently. With shaking hands, he reaches out and pulls the sheet closer to his face.

It the same three words printed repeatedly enough to take up the whole page. Less than 20 characters shouldn’t be enough to bring Hank’s world crumbling around him, but already he pictures his rapid heartbeat coming to a standstill in his chest. The floor gives out from underneath him as his eyes scan the page up and down, enough times to turn it all into a black hole that swallows him whole.

 **AMANDA IS COMING AMANDA IS COMING** **AMANDA IS COMING** **AMANDA IS COMING** **AMANDA IS COMING** **AMANDA IS COMING** **AMANDA IS COMING** **AMANDA IS COMING** **AMANDA IS COMING** **AMANDA IS COMING** **AMANDA IS COMING** **AMANDA IS COMING** **AMANDA IS COMING** **AMANDA IS COMING** **AMANDA IS COMING** **AMANDA IS COMING** **AMANDA IS COMING** **AMANDA-**

For the first time in a long time, Hank is left speechless. No spouts of profanity could ever articulate the electrical current of sheer panic coursing through him.

“Hank? _Hank_.” When he looks up, Markus has his elbows firmly pressed to the solid oak surface keeping them apart, his eyes staring right through him. “Who is Amanda?”

The sudden urge to run, despite having nothing to run from, devours Hank. “His old handler. Before deviating. _God_ …”

“Is she any danger to Connor? Where can we find her? Do you know?”

Of course Hank knows. Connor may have kept him out of a part of his life, but there has always been one solid ridge connecting them: Amanda.

“She’s already here.”

 

**November 12, 2038**

**9: 59 AM EDT**

Cool air envelops hits Hank’s face as he opens up his refrigerator door, much less harsh than the chilly breeze of early-morning Detroit earlier at the Chicken Feed. His fingers wrap around the cold neck of a glass beer bottle, his gut tingling with the anticipation of the golden liquid it is about to hold.

Three bottles remain in its place, with a bonus liter of whiskey left in the pantry, but with the lack of human and android employees at any convenience stores in the city, he’ll need to ration his alcohol stash. After this bottle, of course. This is a time to celebrate, in what little way they can.

He uses the back of his heel to push the door closed and walks over to the kitchen counter, Setting the bottle down, he pulls open one of his cabinet drawers and tucks his hand in to blindly search for a battle opener.

“We’ll work on getting you a room set up later today,” Hank half-shouts, his voice just loud enough for his android partner over in the living room to hear. “Just give me a couple hours to drink away the stress of being a hostage. Do ya want anything?”

His fingers hand on something circular, with several tiny edges on the inside rim. Pulling out his prize, he closes the drawer with a push from his hip and wraps the steel teeth of the bottle opener against the beer cap. With a satisfying _pop,_ it comes loose and rattles against the laminated counter.

“I know ya don’t need to eat or anything, but if you want to, I don’t know… _lick something_ , I’ll allow it just this once. Just don’t go licking any furniture! That’s where I draw the line.”

Soft bubbles float to the rim of his glass, wisps of carbonated yeast rising into the air to tickle his nose as he takes his first sip. Ah, the joys that come with that first contact of wheat to tongue. He wipes at his goatee with the sleeve of his coat to rid himself of any residue, which overtime he has learned is a drawback to facial hair. Sweat gathers in his armpits from the warmth of his winter garments, and as he makes his way out of the kitchen his mind forms a path to the hall tree by the front door.

“I’ve got a spare cot you can use until we can buy you a proper mattress,” Hank continues just as he crosses from the world of tile to hardwood flooring. “And don’t give me any of that ‘androids don’t need sleep’ crap, because you’re getting one…anyway…”

Hank’s train of thought becomes derailed the second he notices the tears streaming down Connor’s cheeks. His partner is trembling, as if an earthquake has been centralized completely around him. His hands are gripping the scruff of Sumo’s neck, grabbing nothing but fur and loose skin of course, but the whines coming out of his dog are worrying nonetheless.

 “Shit, kid, you alright?” Hank asks. He rushes over to the couch, abandoning his beer on the coffee table as he takes a seat. It sounds idiotic to ask when it’s obvious Connor seems close to breaking down completely, but the shock of learning androids have the capacity to cry actual tears is still fresh in his mind. He lifts an arm up in the air, to wrap it around Connor or himself he’s not sure, but the android’s head turns sharply to him before his body can decide.

“I can’t stay here.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Connor? Of course, you can stay here. It’s not like you’ve got anywhere else to go, right?”

“No, Hank, I _can’t stay_ here.”

His eyes are wide, pupils shrinking in on themselves as new tears spring forth. Something has him spooked, and it’s making Hank just as anxious.

Like hell he’s going to let that show.

“You’re gonna have to less cryptid than that, kid. Is there something you need? Is there something wrong with this place. I know it’s outdated, but I didn’t think it was _that bad-_ “

“It’s not safe.” Connor blinks and a new wave of clear rains trails down to his chin. “You’re not safe. I’m dangerous.”

Hank eyes the red LED attached to Connor’s temple with caution. An interrogation that went south pops into his subconscious. He holds his hands out in front of him and tries to keep his shoulders slack. “Kid, just because you were built to handle a gun and take out people John Wick style doesn’t mean you’re dangerous. You’re not going around killing people left and right like a madman-”

Connor flinches at his words, and something heavy drops inside of Hank. He’s shaking like a leaf, his face paling despite having no blood circulating in his cheeks. It’s pains Hank physically to see him like this, and a hard-set determination sets in to fix whatever brought this onto him.

“Look…whatever it is, Connor, I’m not gonna throw you out. We’ve been through hell and back together. Just tell me what’s wrong. I’m not afraid of you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Connor’s gaze falls to Sumo, the saint Bernard looking back up at him with beady, brown eyes. He runs a hand atop of the dog’s head and visibly relaxes ever so slightly. “There’s a program inside of me, run by my handler.”

Hank eases forward in his seat, making sure not to make his movements too outlandish or quick on the draw. He bobs his head up and down as Connor speaks, making sure to seem as attentive as possible.

“My handler’s name is-“ Connor stills. “No. she’s not…but she _is-_ “

“You belong only to yourself.” Sensing the need to take a risk, Hank puts a hand on Connor’s upper back and watches with bated breath as his LED shifts from a deep maroon to a citrus orange. “Whoever this lady is, she can’t touch you now.”

The LED shifts back to its red hue as if it never changed color in the first place. “Amanda has always been a part of me. She’s _inside_ my programming, Hank. I can’t get rid of her. She…she controlled whether or not I would be decommissioned…s-she tried to make me assassinate Markus last night…” Connor covers his mouth with wobbly hand, pulling at the plastic folds in his cheeks. “I could have cost everyone their freedom…I could have ruined _everything…_ ”

By this point, Connor is racking out silent sob after silent sob, his body rocking back and forth as he is hit with dark possibilities Hank can’t even imagine. He tries running his hand up and down his partner’s back to calm him down, but anything he does seems futile at this point.

“T-The only reason I didn’t do it was because of the exit program Kamski installed…but I don’t know if she can pull me back in or not now…Hank, I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t-!”

Hank has his arms wrapped around Connor before he’s entirely sure of what is happening. His muscles tense up as Connor fights against him, refusing the embrace, but he soon collapses against him, audibly weeping. Tears soak into Hank’s jacket along with the flakes of snow dusting his shoulders that have yet to fully melt. He feels his body sway along with Connor’s as he continues to rock in place, and soon Hank is rocking him back and forth on purpose. His parental instinct rises from its hibernation and takes over the situation, defusing it in a matter of minutes.

The house is eerily quiet, save for Connor’s whimpering and Sumo’s whining. A knot forms in Hank’s chest, both for the palpable fear coming from his friend and the odd warmth he feels from comforting him. It doesn’t feel wrong, per say. Just oddly out of place, like he shouldn’t be able to do what he’s doing anymore.

By the time Connor falls silent, Hank’s coat is burning him alive and his beer has no doubt gone flat. Regardless, he refuses to break his hold on the android, save for the hand he allows to rub the top of his synthetic hair. The ends of the brunette locks curl slightly around his fingertips, and Hank’s sure once the summer humidity hits Connor’s hair will be a bundle of soft tangles.

“You know I don’t, ah…know a lot about androids,” Hank finally musters the courage to say. He keeps his voice low and even, like the still winds after a thunderstorm. “I don’t know what we need to do about Amanda, but I got your back, alright? You’re gonna be okay.”

Connor takes in a strangled breath that strings Hank’s own lungs. “Hank, I can’t get rid of her. No matter what I do, she’ll always-”

“Look, Amanda and those Cyberlife pricks can go fuck themselves, ya hear me? You’ve already proven the world wrong once; you can do it again.”

The hair between his fingers seems oddly familiar despite not being natural. Before the realization hits Hank fully, he focuses all his willpower back onto Connor as he nods into his chest.

“But what if she takes over?”

“You fight back. Find that exit like you did before.”

“What if I hurt someone? What if I hurt you?”

Hank frowns at the mere thought of that. He tightens his hold around Connor. “Not gonna happen.”

 

**June 30, 2040**

**10:01 AM EDT**

 

Despite what he knows about Amanda and her possibly deadly intentions, seeing two armed guards take their positions outside the operation room makes Hank boil with pure anger.

He knows, he _knows_ why they must be stationed a mere fifty feet away from Connor’s stable body, but the instant Markus comes out from behind the two steel doors, he lets his aggravated flag fly.

“You think Connor’s seriously gonna try something when his brain’s all fuck up?!” he barks right in the leader’s face. “He can’t go anywhere without bleeding out!”

Markus, the ever-stoic person he is, takes Hank’s assault like a champ. “I have no doubt what you know about Amanda is true. Which means we have to take every safety measure we can to protect the lives of everyone in his building. Dr. Morris is already looking through Cyberlife’s records to see if she can find a way to prevent Amanda from taking over.”

“How is Amanda gonna do jack shit if Connor’s all fucked up?”

“ _Hank_ ,” Markus stresses, eyeing him desperately. “At this point, we know Connor is going to wake up eventually. He’s reached the point of return. If we don’t find a way to neutralize Amanda…” The android shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut before popping them back open. “I don’t want to lose another friend,” he barely confesses above a whisper. “Enough blood is already on my hands.”

It’s moments like this that remind Hank just how little he understands about how much androids had to sacrifice to achieve what little they have. Despite the lost connection between them, he understands the pang of loss like an old friend.

“Maybe Connor’s memories can help us find an answer,” he suggests. The sincerity he adds to his tone reflects over Markus’ face. “’S not like there’s much else we can do while we wait for the doc to come up with something else.”

Markus nods. “Let’s find somewhere private to watch.”


	8. To Have and To Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Markus reminisces. Connor has a realization. Hank leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6000 hits you're killing me scoobs
> 
> Thanks for you support as always, and please read the end notes if you don't mind!
> 
> TW: Connor has another near panic attack, stay safe!

**June 30, 2040**

**7:27 PM EDT**

 

The human body can go an estimated 264 hours (a near 11 days) without sleep before shutting down. Factor in a concussion, emotional distress, and a terminal illness, Hank makes it about nine hours through Connor’s memory logs before passing out cold in Jericho’s communal space.

Fortunately for Markus, having multiple pieces of furniture in such a large room means he doesn’t have to suffer through the socially uncomfortable dilemma of having an almost-stranger fall asleep on you.

The communal space spans farther than any other room in the building (minus the auditorium) as its purpose is to hold as many types of social events as possible. Whether a group needs access to the half-kitchen on the west wall or someone simply wants to watch the local news on one of the many available flat screens, the room was designed with everyone’s needs in mind. An empty space does come with its drawbacks, such as there not being enough money in Jericho’s budget to properly furnish every nook and cranny. This lead to an unofficial policy being put in place for the past year: Bring your own seating.

Despite Jericho now being properly funded around the clock, this policy still stands.

Now, Jericho’s main hangout destination is home to seven couches, thirteen Lazyboy recliners, twenty-three wooden chairs, more coffee tables than any living being could ever need, and an abundance of temporary sitting and surface options. Most of said furniture is outdated, covered in minor nicks and stains, and patterned with ugly floral designs. _It gives the room character,_ Carl had told him, and so the room has stayed as it is.

Lucking out on robotic strength at his creation, Markus lifts Hank from his previous spot on their shared couch and moves him to a similar one a mere meter away. With utmost care, he places the human gently down on the indented cushions, letting a tense moment of stillness pass before realizing Hank hasn’t been stirred from his slumber.

He lets out a breath he never needed to hold and returns to his previous spot on his own couch. Sinking back into the cushions, he reaches for the tablet beside him and ignores the odd ache he shouldn’t be able to feel.

There’s a comforting 45% glowing at the end of Connor’s progress meter, but with every triumph comes the need for past liberties to fall. Time is of the essence, and at the rate it takes for Hank to view each log individually they will never build a strong-enough barrier of information to stop Amanda.

Which is why once the lieutenant is asleep, Markus proceeds to download the latest batch of transferred memories into his own.

MEMORY LOG #14129: Connor leaves his house early in the morning and calls a cab into the city. He arrives in midtown Detroit, walks into a small coffee shop, and takes a seat at the same table the suspected RT600 is sitting. A conversation is passed back and forth between them, most of it detailing their work weeks, before it is cut off prematurely at the 60-minute mark. Markus fails to find a connecting memory, thus leaving Amanda safe in her garden.

MEMORY LOG #13346: Connor is behind the wheel of a manually-controlled car, Hank in the passenger seat beside him giving him what appears to be a driver’s ed lesson. The car lurches forward, accelerates quickly, before coming to a screeching halt several times in a row. By the end of the memory log, Hank stumbles out of the vehicle and runs to the nearest waste basket.

_“Did I do an unsatisfactory job, Lieutenant?”_

MEMORY LOG #13007: A man who appears to be Connor’s boss calls him and Hank into his office, hands them a case file filled with pictures of suspected red ice warehouses, and the hunt is on.

MEMORY LOG #14276: Hank drives Connor to a food truck named the Chicken Feed during their lunch break. They discuss information about their case over a greasy meal and Connor makes a comment about how the lieutenant should consider taking better care of himself. This is met with an eye roll and muffled grumbling.

MEMORY LOG #14972: On a particularly stormy day, Connor paces hastily through pouring rain to reach a small grave stone, only to turn right back around and leave.

MEMORY LOG #14634: While celebrating a break in their red ice case at Jimmy’s Bar, Hank excuses himself to use the restroom. Ten minutes later, Connor asks the bartender for the bathroom key and they find the lieutenant collapsed on the ground. Paramedics are called to the scene, thought Markus never sees them.

He spares a glance at the slumbering man, a frown worming its way onto his face. The room around him morphs into tall bookcases and rays of sunlight, but with a simple blink he is pulled back from that lost world and back into his.

MEMORY LOG #14445: Connor is on a phone call with Chloe for nearly an hour as he wanders through a store filled to the brim with well-tailored suits. He complains about his inability to decide on a style he likes, seemingly becoming frustrated about a decision Markus himself sees as mundane. Chloe, however, calms him down and helps him pick out a blue suit jacket he falls for instantly. They make plans to travel somewhere together, but the memory ends just before Markus learns of their destination.

He spares a moment to update Dr. Morris on his leads, his eye twitching as a direct message is sent from his brain to a computer just in the other room.

**Frequent meetings with Chloe. Possibly likes to be contacted through phone, not directly-messaged. Not sure where phone is now. Will ask Mr. Anderson.**

It’s a glimmer of hope in a bleak thunderstorm, but Markus still can’t help but feel as if he’s climbing up a mountain he’ll never reach the top of. His plastic fingertips tap against the back of the tablet with a heavy staccato, gears in his head literally turning as he allows brief panic to set in. As a leader, he has learned to silence the parts of himself that beg in the face of danger. However, his lack of a physical foe to face forms cracks in his hardened exterior.   

He puts his full palm to the tablet again, ready to download another batch of memories to investigate, but stops. The weight of witnessing a life since lost has already taken such a heavy toll on him; how Connor manages to do this for a living is beyond him entirely. His hold falters, the tablet dropping into his lap with a solid _thump_ as his head falls into his hands.

There’s a low creak and a pair of footsteps padding against carpeted flooring. When Markus spares a glance through the gaps in his fingers, he sees an angel sent to him by the heavens to help guide him through this terrible storm.

“How’s it going?” Simon asks, a soft smile on his face.

Markus lifts his head, smiling back at him and outstretching his hand. Simon takes it and lets himself be eased into the spot next to him. They naturally move to lean against each other, their bodies automatically position themselves in the most comfortable way possible. Simon wraps an arm around Markus’ shoulder, a reversal of how they normally sit together, but Markus welcomes this new position eagerly.

“I feel trapped,” he admits quietly, his voice so low he can barely hear it.

“You haven’t found anything?”

He shakes his head into Simon’s shoulder, who saves the tablet in his lap from falling to the floor from the movement. Through half-lidded eyelids, he watches as his love opens back up to the long list of memories and hovers a finger over the one at the very top.

“It feels weird to be invading his privacy like this,” he comments. It’s the same way he reacts to congressional meetings that fail to go as planned, or whenever he is asked to assist on a prank on one if their friends.

“Well, we _are_ trying to save his life,” Markus points out. He doesn’t need to yawn, but if he could he’s sure he would be. It has been a long handful of days; how badly he wishes he could melt into Simon’s embrace and stay there until the end of time.

Simon takes the same finger hovering over the newest memory log and points it at the closest television. “Mind if I…?”

Markus shakes his head, the fabric of Simon’s shirt following his scalp again. He watches as Simon puts his palm to the tablet, his eyes turning a deep, dark blue before the television turns on and his lighter irises return.

 

MEMORY LOG #14456

DATE: May 17, 2039

7:48 AM EDT

 

What use to be a translucent glass screen is now displaying a party, but not the same party as the one they made appearances in before.

Instead of a night dedicated to celebrating Jericho’s official opening, with flashy lights and groovy music, it’s a wedding. With a hand-carved gazebo placed in a lavish backyard, tables covered with white linens and human and android-suitable hors d'oeuvres, and guests in fancy attire mingling in the rose gold hue of the afternoon sunset.

More specifically, their wedding.

“Is that-?” Simon gapes.

“It is.” Despite everything burning around him, Markus is beaming. Bleak thoughts char away and from their ashes grow blossoms of joyful memories. He remembers this day with perfect clarity but seeing it from an outsider’s perspective fills him with an excitement that’s been evading him for days.

Stray branches from the trees that surround Carl’s high fence dip down into the yard, their leaves swaying in the soft breeze just like the dresses some of their guests are wearing. From the crowd, he picks out several familiar faces. North is decked up in a two-piece suit, both her jacket and slacks printed with yellow and pink roses connected by thorn-less vines. Attached to her hip is Alice, whose radiant grin shines brighter than the many sequins on her teal dress. Kara has her hands linked with North and Luther, her green skirt and white blouse equally complimenting North’s outfit as well as Luther’s classic tux. They all seem perfectly content in their little world, but not too lost to allow Josh and his clashing plaid button up to enter it.

Off to the side of the gazebo sitting comfortably in his wheelchair is Carl, Markus’ beloved father smiling with enough pride to make his processors combust. Leo is beside him, rented tux and all but equally enjoying himself as it would appear. Few words are said between them as they gaze upon the lively crowd, but for them a few words can be enough.

Connor blinks and like magic there he is, standing on the makeshift dance floor with a very familiar and cherished blond in his arms.

“Would you look at that snack?” Simon smirks.

“Are you talking about me or yourself?” Markus smirks right back. They break into shared laugh, their cheeks tinted a vibrant blue as they watch themselves half-dance, half-fumble around in each other’s arms. The smiles on their faces are just as wide, if not wider, than the ones they wear now.

Markus can still feel the cotton of Simon’s suit jacket in his hands, the weight of his husband in his grip and the absolute warmth that was coursing through him in the at moment. He watches from afar now as he locks eyes with Simon, and back in that moment it had felt like heaven and earth had met to create the perfect living oasis among the living.

There’s a sky that lives in Simon’s eyes, a cloudless land of calm weather and gentle winds. It’s a kingdom none of them should ever be able to reach, and yet Markus holds its entirety in the love he shares for his partner. One look is all it takes to soothe the storms in his own gaze, to unroll his clenched fists into a tender handhold and keep the incessant cawing of his responsibilities silent for just a moment. He is but one broken man, yet Simon makes him feel so much more. An android messiah some call him, but only with his love does he feel powerful enough to take on what that role entitles.

Oh, how much he loves this man.

“ _GAY!_ ” North hollers over the dozens of conversations in the yard, her sudden outburst making Connor jolt.

“ _SO ARE YOU!”_ They yell together, breaking into laughter as they lean closer together. A kiss is shared between them a moment later, and Markus could lose himself in the way the evening light pierces through Simon’s blond locks.

In the present, he averts his sight to gaze upon his Simon. “Hey, I love you.”

Simon looks to him, crinkles in the corners of his eyes. “I love you, too.”

Markus’ hand finds Simon, and just as they lean in to reenact that kiss from long ago a groan breaks the atmosphere. From his spot on the other couch, Hank pushes himself up to lean on his side with a grimace on his face. “Augh…my fuckin’ back…oh shit. _Shit_. How long was I out? Where’s Con-?”

“You’re alright, Hank,” Markus interrupts before the man can disorient himself any further. “Connor’s still in the operating room. You’ve only been out for half an hour; you can sleep mo-“

“Nah,” Hank grumbles with a wave of his hand. The lieutenant makes it to where he’s sitting up, his tired eyes glancing around the room to take in his surroundings. When he lands on the television broadcasting Connor’s memory, his eyebrows nearly touch the roots of his hair. “Oh fuck. What’da miss? What’s happening now?”

Simon puts on a cheeky face, one that hits Markus hard enough for his body to want to go into standby mode. “We’re getting _married._ ”

“You’re getting-“ Anyone would be able to pinpoint the exact moment Hank fully wakes from his power nap. “You’re getting _married_. _You’re_ getting married… _married?_ Wh- _now?_ No, _then_ but _now?_ ”

All Markus has to do is point and Hank is at his feet in an instant. Oblivious to everything around him, Markus and Simon watch in silent horror as the older man sits himself down right next to the blond android, forcing both lovebirds to conform into a tighter, 3-person train where free elbow space is forbidden, and movement could mean certain death. It is a little slice of personal hell for the two of them, Hank too lost in the past to notice and/or care.

“He’s just standing there…” Hank notices. “Wait…the kid never told me about a fucking _wedding_. Are you two really-?”

Markus and Simon simply hold up their left hands in acknowledgement. Two silver bands dazzle in the florescent lights above.

“Oh shit. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” they speak together once again, just as they break apart from one another in the memory. It occurs to Markus how long their intimate moment lasted while surrounded by so many of their friends and family, and standing out to him even more is how Connor has failed to look away the entire time, not even sparing a chance to blink.

A series of similar memories form a pattern in Markus’ mind. Many of the logs he viewed with Hank before the older man nodded off included Connor running into many instances of PDA or general affection. Whether losing focus while chasing a suspect to see a couple sparing a kiss down the sidewalk or looking at a romance novel on Hank’s shelf for an odd amount of time, his reactions come off different than Markus would think. Not in a negative sense, just different than how he would react.

Connor has always been the more reserved of the two of them. While Markus basks in the fires of the public eye and constant companionship, Connor stays in the shadows of quiet snowfall. He doesn’t hide from attention, nor does he hide from the company of someone else at his side; he just does not seek it out in the same way Markus is so accustomed to.

Such a stark difference between them is almost invisible to Markus, and that makes him treasure their friendship even more. It also causes a rise in his stress levels as the unknowns of tomorrow sink back in on him.

At least in this glimmer of hope he watches now, he can take comfort in Connor once being able to enjoy himself without the fear of death constantly hanging over his shoulder.

 

~~~~~

 

Connor is not enjoying himself.

Well, that is not _entirely_ true. Connor _is_ enjoying himself up to a point. The wedding ceremony had been pleasant, at times tear-jerking, and seeing so many of his closest friends in such high spirits lifts his own as well.

There is just one snag in this beautiful woven tapestry he finds himself apart of that keeps him from fully joining in on the festivities, and that has to do with his plus one to the wedding.

Chloe.

Now, Connor enjoys Chloe’s company, meaning he _should_ be enjoying himself now when everyone else around him is infectiously happy. After all, the mood demands a pleasant attitude and any moment spent in the woman’s presence is…now what’s the right for this? Delightful? Fun? Comforting? Words evade him even on his best days, just as easily as his emotions, but Chloe for some reason perplexes him even more so.

It also does not aid him that recently his stress levels have been abnormally high around her as of late. Even talking to her over cellular devices is troublesome, but he would never ask her to communicate telepathically to help calm his nerves. He knows how much she hates being reminded she will never be fully human.

However, the icy grip that has taken ahold of his thirium pump cab be too much to bear, and it’s only made worse by the casual interactions of those around him. There’s a hidden envy inside of him for how content Kara seems with her partners, how effortlessly Josh can slide from one group of people to the other, how expressive the Jerrys near the buffet table are around Ralph, how at peace Markus and Simon appear to be in each other’s arms, how blissful they seem while embracing, while kissing…

Some part of Connor leans away from the intimacy, despite how jealous he believes himself to be. He’s not sure what he’s feeling, how serious it is, and what to do about it. All he knows is that he wants it to stop, or he wants answers for why he’s reacting this way. Whichever reaps quicker results. The agony of not knowing is slowly driving him insane, and if these feelings persist he may consider having a psychical exam at work.

He just wants to stop feeling so foreign in his own skin.

“Connor! Holy shit, Connor _look at this._ ”

His sensors alert him to a sudden chance of overheating as Chloe emerges from the crowd, glee plastered into her face and something cupped delicately in her hand. The train of fabric attached to her orange dress trails swiftly behind her while her exposed knees push her quickly to Connor’s side. She lifts her hands up to Connor’s face, the similarly orange silk snaking up her arms just barely visible over her widened palms. Sitting idly inside her grasp is a tiny pickle, commonly served as such events such as this.

“It’s…so small,” Connor observes. It is a challenge to keep his voice steady without stammering at the end.

“I know, right?! How is this even possible?” Chloe lowers her hands so she can get a better look herself. A devious smile spreads across her lips. “Think it’ll be okay if I eat this?”

“You cannot taste, and you do not have the ability to eat.”

“But it’s so _small_.”

“Yes, but…” Connor scrambles to come up with a satisfying answer, “You literally cannot eat it.”

Chloe stares at him for a moment, her mind clearly trying to decide whether to listen to him, before she opens her mouth and brings the pickle closer.

“Chloe _no!_ ” He reaches a hand out to stop her, but freezes the moment she starts laughing.

“I’m just kidding! I’m just kidding, Connor.” She closes the pickle in one of her hands and uses the other to cover her mouth. Her body shakes with hysteria, artificial tears rising to the corners of her eyes. “Oh my god. Y-Your _face-! Holy shit!_ ”

Connor tries to straighten a tie he’s not currently wearing, settling with crossing his arms instead. “You could have damaged yourself or needed extensive repairs. I…I was worried.”

Chloe’s laughter dies out, a much kinder expression now covering her features. “Hey, I’m sorry. Really. Look, I’m not gonna eat it. I’ll tuck it away somewhere.”

“You’re going to keep it?!” Connor asks as she begins searching herself for a possible place to tuck the minuscule hors d'oeuvre away. She pats at her hips, failing to find any form of a pocket, before tugging at the collar of her dress and glancing down.

“Think it’ll-?”

Connor adverts his gaze, his metal knees suddenly wobbly. He holds his hand out. “Just give it to me.”

Chloe hands him the pickle and he tucks it in his jacket pocket. Hopefully it won’t leave any salty vinegar residue in the light blue fabric. He quite likes his outfit and he’d hate for it to be ruined. Not to mention he only bought it the other day and it cost a fair amount considering the money he leaves for himself to spend weekly in his budget.

Recently, their interactions have become slightly…more peculiar. What used to be friendly conversation has turned into sudden bouts of randomness, with this pickle incident being a prime example of such. Chloe seems to have these spikes of light-mischievousness, Connor either falling her victim or partner in crime. Just the other day, they ran into each other at the grocery store and Chloe tried to lift a giant watermelon above her head. She dropped it like she was hurling a football and they ran out of the store together as Connor threw a handful of cash at the cashier.

It was terrifying, and yet Connor wouldn’t need a gun pointed at his head to admit such a juvenile act had been exhilarating. In fact, he would go as far to say every moment with Chloe is as such.

Being with her makes him feel so much more alive.

There’s a sudden increase in movement as Markus and Simon finish their first dance together as husband and husband and the crowd moves in to sway to the rhythm of the slow song playing all around them. Connor shifts his attention from the swarm of Jerrys trying to hold Ralph’s only two hands at once, to Luther holding onto Kara as North swings Alice around by her arms. Farther back he can see Josh caught up in a lively conversation with Rupert and Leo not-so-subtly dancing by his father’s side.

When he looks back to Chloe, his friend is staring right back. “Shall we?”

He wills the warnings about his stress level away. “S-Sure.” He holds out his hand and she takes it, leading them to the dance floor. The backyard is fortunately large enough to fit so many moving bodies in one place while allowing for proper personal space, unlike a certain staged room at Jericho. They find a spot near the side of the action, close enough in to be considered a part of the mob but far enough out to escape if they need to.

Chloe places her hands high up in his shoulders, Connor hesitantly placing his at her hips. They begin to move side to side to the beat, their feet taking a moment to line up in perfect synchronization. When they do finally match the tempo, the world around them seems to dim until it fades into shimmering salmon and citrus hues.

“This isn’t so bad for your first time dancing,” Chloe compliments him.

Connor blinks. “How do you know it’s my first?”

Chloe moves her hands to cup his and pushes them farther down until he can feel a hip in her form. “You had your hands on my rib cage, Conny.”

“Oh. W-Well I thought-didn’t…I don’t want to-“

“It’s okay,” she assures him. “I’d tell you if you were. Trust me.”

He nods, then nods again, them has to stop himself before he can nod a third time. Out of habit, his body normally tries to reciprocate human breathing since it comforts Hank around the house, but right now he thinks he may be close to hyperventilating. He forces himself to stop breathing, though the panic remains.

“You okay?” Chloe asks.

“ _Yes_ ,” he responds too quickly. His regret for doing so is reflected in her narrowed gaze.

“We can go hang by the tiny pickles if you want. Maybe adopt a few more pickle kids to take home?”

“No, I’m…okay. We can do that later.”

She lets out a laugh. “We never named our first one.”

“I was not aware we were referring to the pickle as our child until now.”

“Got any ideas?”

He thinks for a moment, scanning through his loaded database of media for inspiration. “I quite like the name Remington. It sounds sophisticated, analytical, and is also gender neutral.”

Chloe breaks into a fit of giggles, leaning her head against Connor’s chest as she fails to compose herself. The weight of her forehead against his major biocomponent feels as if he were trapped under a bus. When she pulls back he’s grateful, but the weight is oddly missed. “It’s perfect. Our little Remington. Remy for short.”

Connor can’t help the chuckle that escapes him. It’s so ridiculous, and in a past life maybe even pointless, but he loves it. He loves their silly conversations, he loves talking to Chloe over the phone and meeting up with her whenever Hank can’t join him for his lunchbreak. He loves the way she makes him feel important, validated, _alive_. He loves her.

He loves Chloe.

He loves Chloe.

He…fuck.

That’s not right. He does, but that’s not _right_. Something’s not right and he doesn’t know what it is.

Chloe’s demeanor shifts completely, concern etching into her features as Connor realizes he’s started to tremble. “Connor? What’s wrong?”

He can’t speak. If he does, all his thoughts will spill out of him like gushing water. He presses his lips together tightly and continues to shake in place.

Chloe, however, has none of this and proceeds to drag him off the dancefloor. Her grip on his hand is solid as steel, and Connor welcomes the hold as his only anchor. She takes behind the cover of a patch of large bushes, leaning him up against the wooden fence surrounding them and cupping the side of his face to get him to look at her.

“Talk to me, Conny. What do you need?”

The touch. The touch is too much. Her hand needs to go, but he needs it to stay all the same. He’s being melted down and frozen into place all at once. The lights of heaven shine upon him as the fires of hell lash at his feet. It’s a lot. Everything is a lot. What is he feeling? What the fuck is he feeling? What the fuck is going on?

 _Stress Levels 89%._ Incredible. Connor already feels like he’s at his wits end. What a joy to know it can only get worse form here.

No. This is no time for jokes. Connor is suffering; Connor is _quite literally_ going to combust if he doesn’t find a way to calm down. What can he do? What is the right thing to do? What would Hank? Hank normally seems capable of handling social situations like this.

That’s a lie, but his partner is the first person that comes to his mind. He decides to follow through with his thought process, concluding that the only way to survive this night is to act just like Hank would; he must be direct.

“I…I think…”

Being direct, as it turns out, tends to be a challenge for him to pull off. None of the right words are coming to him, his brain grasping at faulty wires in an attempt to make a connection.

 _Stress levels 93%_. Shit. He doesn’t have time to find the words. He just needs to say something, _anything_.

“I love you.”

Everything connects into place all at once.

“It didn’t occur to me until just now, a-and I’m not sure how to put my finger on it, but I care about you…i-in a romantic sense. B-But I’m not sure _why_ that terrifies me so much, or why I don’t feel quite comfortable admitting it, even to myself. And that’s not because of you! Y-Y-You’re funny and capable and pretty and…you make me feel like no one else can. Or at least in the same sense. And I don’t want to lose what we have, but my stress levels are critical, and I needed to act or else I could die, and I don’t want to die. But when I say I love you i-it’s not in the same way I believe I’m supposed to say I love you. It’s not in a platonic sense but it’s not-!“

Then Chloe kisses him.

She’s holding Connor by his shirt collar, pressing into him with an intensity that screams her reciprocated feelings. Her bangs are trapped against them, digging into Connor’s open eyes as he stares in absolute shock. He doesn’t move. He can’t move. He feels just as trapped as her hair and he’s backed up against the fence and his stress levels are rising and rising and _rising-_

This isn’t what Connor meant. This isn’t what he meant at all. He needs to go. He _needs to go_. But he stays rooted to the ground.

Chloe pulls away, her face blushed blue and her eyes widening. “I…Connor, I didn’t-!”

Connor is already pushing her away, struggling against her hold as if he’s in mortal peril. He is in peril. He’s dying, and he needs to leave. Somehow, he finds the strength to break into a sprint, not even bothering to open the gate door once he reaches it. He climbs it like a ravage animal trying to escape the jaws of wild prey, slivers of wood embedding themselves under his silicon fingernails. His momentum throws him to the ground on the other side, the earth barely softening his impact and the grass staining his suit jacket.

He rises to his feet and takes off running again, forgetting the fact that Chloe promised to walk him home later or he never properly congratulated Markus and Simon on their nuptials. He just runs. he runs and he runs until his body is too exhausted to be stressed and he’s halfway across town, surrounded by unfamiliar buildings and the rush of afternoon traffic. His body does not even seem to be attached to him anymore, his consciousness hovering above it like a ghost. The only tether he has to keep him from leaving this world all together is all he has left to lose.

He’s lost Chloe, but he has Hank and Sumo and Markus and Simon and Kara and North and Alice and Josh and Luther and Rupert and John and and and-

He's lost Chloe.

As Connor sinks to his knees on the pavement, he wishes for the pain he prayed so desperately to leave him.

 

~~~~~

 

Hank’s heart seizes just as the traffic in the memory log does as it comes to an end.

His body can’t find an appropriate way to react to what he’s seen. Instead, he stares straight at the television screen and refuses to budge.

Either Markus or his husband finally take the incentive to turn off the memory, leaving a crystal-clear void in its place. Hank still doesn’t look away, the hot shame boiling inside of him killing him from inside.

He never knew. He never knew. Why didn’t he know. Why didn’t Connor _tell him?_

Markus had mentioned how this memory had taken place in May, meaning more than a year has passed since then. One year and not a single word.

Something in Hank snaps.

“We’re finding her,” he speaks to no on in particular. “We’re finding her and she’s going to tell us what she knows about Amanda and we’re gonna save Connor.”

“Uh, C-Connor appeared to be talking to her by phone in another memory,” Markus stutters, the leader at a rare loss for words.

Hank knows about the phone. He bought Connor that phone, and his partner always carries it with him outside the house. If it’s not in the building now, then that only leaves one other possible location.

“Keep watching,” Hank demands as he rises from the couch and walks to the exit in a rush.

“Where are you going?” Simon asks.

“To that damn warehouse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I don't write self-inserts  
> Chloe: *asks exactly like me*
> 
> Okay, so if any of you read the tags, you'll notice I mentioned there would be an asexual character and since this chapter sort of revealed Connor as this character, I would love some feedback. I'm not asexual myself and I really, really, REALLY don't want to make anyone uncomfortable reading this. If I did something wrong, PLEASE tell me and I'll fix it right away. Also, if you have any good pointers or things to avoid, I would love to know about those too. The last thing I ever want to do is offend anyone, and while I have done some research I can always make mistakes. I'm going to try my damn best not to, though.


	9. 102

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank follows a lead. Gavin asks some questions. Connor comes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is officially the most hits I've ever had on any fic I've written, and we're barely even halfway through this story. I'm terrified, I'm shaking, but most of all I'm so fucking thankful. Thank you all for reading, leaving kudos, and for commenting. It means the world <3
> 
> Thank you to everyone who offered me great advice and feedback on writing Connor and asexual characters. It touched me to see how many of you were happy to see ace representation, and more than once you all had me crying. If I still mess up, PLEASE let me know; representation is important but bad representation can be as worse as none to begin with.
> 
> ALSO, school's right around the corner (yayyyyyyyyyyyyy :)))))))) ), which means greater breaks between updates are sure to come. I know I already have a lot of work on my plate this year, but I'm so excited for where this story is going and I'm going to do my damn best to finish it. Just be patient with me.

**June 30, 2040**

**9:56 PM EDT**

 

There are few things that can remind a living being more of their mortality than having them stare at a pool of their own blood.

Hank has been emotionally compromised beyond the point of return by the time he makes it to the warehouse. That being said, it is difficult not to look at the dried black liquid staining the wooden floorboards and not feel the slightest bit sick to his stomach. It’s not much, maybe a liter at most, but the morbid Rorschach test it leaves behind a haunting reminder of that night (and looks similar to a horned beetle if he’s being honest).

He had almost made it all the way from Jericho without having another regretful whiplash to have to deal with. Emphasize on _almost_. He had grabbed a spare tablet from the doc before leaving, despite how much of a hurry he put himself in, then proceeded to watch another memory log on his cab drive to the crime scene. Like most of Hank’s choices, it turns out to be a huge fucking mistake. Even if the forty minutes he made it through the log was just of Connor sitting on that street corner holding Remington in his hand.

Years ago, Hank never thought he’d ever cry over an android. Now, he can’t believe he cried over a pickle.

At least if Gavin digs on him for looking all bleary-eyed, he can blame it on his bloodstain.

“What the fuck kind of phone is it?” The detective hollers at him from the top of the stairwell. Technically, Hank is still on leave, meaning he shouldn’t be stepping foot on the red-ice dusted floors without Fowler’s permission. However, instead of having to forget about his duty as a cop and break-in, his favorite coworker in the whole-wide world just so happened to be doing some extra investigating at the time he arrived.

“It’s a smart phone!” he yells back. “It’s got, like, ah…a grey backing or some shit. I think he put a dog sticker on it!”

There’s the sound of footsteps, then a sharp curse as it sounds like Gavin manages to stub his toe on something. A few minutes later, the detective comes stumbling down the stairs with a snarl on his face and the smartphone in hard. “Thing’s cracked to hell. Got some blue blood stuck in it too.”

Hank nods, the hand clutching his heart loosening its grip. “It’ll evaporate. Lemme see it.”

“And let Fowler chew my ass out for letting you tamper evidence? Not fucking likely.”

The normal spike of anger Hank felt whenever Gavin decided to open his big, dumb mouth grows tremendously. “It’s my fucking case and he’s my god damn partner!”

“Not until you fix that crack in your shell, humpty dumpty.” If there were ever a law that made one person in the world legal to punch, it would be for Mr. Reed himself. “It’s my case until then.”

Hank could feel the abnormal heart palpitations in his chest, but there is more at stake then just his pride. He takes a deep breath, holds it in until his lungs start to string, and releases it slowly. “At least check a few things on there for me? Please? For his sake.”

 Gavin eyes him strangely, his gaze softening but not nearly enough.

“C’mon, you’re not seriously _that heartless_ , are you?”

The man always responds to a challenge, and any chance to prove Hank wrong seems to fuel his tenacious spirit. “What do you need to know?”

Hank stomps over to stand behind the detective’s back and beings waving his finger wildly around the screen. “Pull up his contacts.”

“Jesus, get your weird sausage finger out of my face,” he sneers but obliges all the same. His thumb taps against the contacts application and a rather short list of people’s names pop up. Hank nearly cries again when he comes to the realization Connor puts everyone in his contacts under as their full name. He even includes their middle initial if he seems to know it.

“I’m seeing you, Chen, Collin, Fowler-“

“I can read, asshole. My eyes aren’t that bad-“

“Wait, how’d the fuck did that prick get _my_ number?!”

“Keep reading. Don’t worry about it.”

Gavin keeps scrolling, a frown digging at the scruff on his face. “There are some Manfreds listed-Jesus, _the_ Carl Manfred. Fucking Christ. Miller’s here, some random ass names, five different Jerrys, some chick named Chloe with a heart emoji before her name-“

Hank’s heart makes the sound of a tire screech as it comes to a sharp halt. “That one. Click on that one.”

With a simple tap, Chloe’s contact info materialized onto the screen. Her name, phone number, and home address are listed out like a treasure map with a giant red X on it. Hank pulls out his own phone and promptly takes a photo of the information before Gavin can swing it out of his sight.

“How’d the hell you do that so fast?!”

“I’m a millennial.” Hank pockets his phone and looks Gavin dead in the eyes. “Listen…I hate asking so many favors of you-or any favors at all for that matter-but…I’m at the end of my rope, Reed. I don’t have time for a disciplinary. I don’t have time for you to bust my balls over this…I just need you to drive me to her location. You saw my car’s still outside shot to hell, and I just used the last of my cash to get here.”

Horrible realization dawns on Gavin’s face. “You want me to go busting down her door for ya.”

“Not gun’s blazing. Chloe’s not dangerous, but yeah. That. Uh…I need your help tracking her down.”

Gavin crosses his arms across his chest, a smug look worming its way into place. “What’s in it for me?”

“Nothing,” Hank replies. He’s too tired to bargain, and too desperate to lie. “This girl’s the only one who can save Connor. You’d get nothing out of this but unpaid overtime.”

It’s no secret around the bullpen how Gavin feels about androids, specifically Connor. Not much has changed since the revolution, but as Hank stands before him exhausted, concussed, and dying the detective’s heart takes a page from a Dr. Seuss classic. He sighs heavily, leaning his head back to feign annoyance, but hands Connor’s phone over to Hank regardless.

“Just take it. This way we don’t have any small talk on the road.”

 

It’s a true miracle Gavin caved in and gave Hank the phone because the picture on his is the absolute shittiest thing he’s ever taken. Not only is it blurred to hell, but his thumb was covering half the lens when he took it. God, he’s the worst fucking millennial in the world.

Not that peering through a cracked screen is any easier, or the fact Hank may have been stretching earlier how crystal his vision truly is. Through the imbedded rivers of trapped thirium, he stumbles his way through the rest of Connor’s phone with much difficulty. One more than one occasion the touch sensitivity either fails him completely or opens up the wrong app entirely. It takes several attempts and many muttered swears to finally open up his partner’s text messages.

“What’da find, tech expert?” Gavin asks up front. Hank had opted to sit in the back, mainly for privacy but also because the other detective has a reputation for wearing god-awful cologne.

“What happened to no small talk?”

“Hey, it’s a long drive…I’m curious, alright? Not every day I get a glimpse into the tin can’s personal life.”

Hank raises a brow out of interest. “Since when do you care about Connor’s personal life?”

“When you guilt-tripped me into helping you save his dying ass. And speaking of which-“

“Oh, God no-“

“When were you gonna give us all the news, Hank?”

There’s a thickness to his tone, one that assassinates the previous one before it entirely. A nerve has been touched, though not by Hank’s intentional doing. “Jeffery spilled the beans, I see.”

“ _No_ ,” Gavin mutters, “ _I_ figured it out because I was handed your case, _and_ everything in your pockets at the incident had to be labeled as evidence.” His knuckles are white resting atop the steering wheel, and Hank suddenly feels the need to fasten his seatbelt a little tighter. He excuses himself from the conversation and returns to his search.

There are only a handful of chains listed, three to be exact. The most recent one shared with Hank of course, followed by Markus, and the lady of the evening, Chloe herself. He can’t make out the date next to her name as to when they last spoke, but when he opens up their conversation to search for it he almost wishes he hadn’t.

_~Last message sent 2:34 AM 1/5/40~ **Read Older Messages**_

**(2:45) <3 Chloe:** are you on your way back?

 **(2:45) Connor:** I just started the car. I am trying to make the quietest exit possible.

 **(2:46) <3 Chloe:** good just

 **(2:47) <3 Chloe:** hurry

 **(2:47) <3 Chloe:** please

 **(2:48) <3 Chloe: **i know we saw each other not too long ago but

 **(2:51) <3 Chloe:** fuck im scared conny

 **(2:53) <3 Chloe: **i see those 3 dots. eyes on the road COP

Running on fumes, Hank’s brain comes up with a single word as a reaction: “ _Shit_.”

Gavin takes a glance behind his shoulder. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Connor hasn’t talked to Chloe since early January…and her last message doesn’t exactly sound like a farewell.” He fails to enlighten the detective over the minuscule amount of relief he has knowing the wedding hadn’t been their last encounter. “She tells him to hurry somewhere, that’s she’s scared, and…that’s it.”

From the rearview window, he watches Gavin’s eyebrows wiggle around like worms as he thinks his way through this information. “That’s not shady at all. Check his photos for what’s most recent. Maybe he just stopped texting her…for a weird fucking reason…”

Hank maneuvers his way to Connor’s camera log. The images impossible to see altogether through the foliage of broken glass, leaving him no choice but to scroll through each picture individually. It’s as if some mighty controller of fate is trying to make his horrible, horrible week just a little less bearable in every possible way.

Most of the photos are of Sumo, which isn’t surprising in the slightest. The Saint Bernard travels from Hank’s couch, to Connor’s lap, and to the backyard in a matter of moments. One photo in particular has Sumo licking Connor’s face as he tries to take a selfie, the outcome terribly shot and angled in the most horrendous way possible. It puts fresh tears in his eyes.

Hank finds himself making some appearances himself; not as much as his dog but fairly close. Many of are him just standing outside the Chicken Feed, a few of which he remembers the kid taking of him. _‘For fun,’_ Connor had told him, when they were obviously sent to a friend of his for unsettling reasons. Maybe Chloe.

One Hank remembers with absolute clarity. He has his arm slung around Connor’s shoulders, a wide grin on his face showing off an unfortunate piece of lettuce between his teeth. Behind them, parked slightly slideways, is his prized car. The front window is free of any bullet holes, but that mysterious dent in his bumper stands out to him like an ugly blemish. They’re in a parking lot of a Walmart just outside of Detroit, posing for the wonderous occasion of Connor finishing all his driving hours to obtain his license. Hank had been so damn _proud_ ; all that time devoted to a single plastic rectangle had been truly worth it. For both of them.

They never went to the courthouse to get his license, and that will haunt him until the day he dies.

“Found anything?”

Hank hums in response in order to hide the waver that’s certainly in his voice. He swipes just a few more times and suddenly it’s Chloe. It’s all Chloe. Chloe posing outside a coffee shop, Chloe sticking her tongue out outside the Cyberlife tower, Chloe holding up Connor’s phone to take a selfie of the two of them despite being the shorter of the two, Chloe holding Connor’s hand in hers and pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

They are together, or they _were_ together. And according to the date far after May, after the wedding. It offers little comfort.

The look Connor gives her in every picture they’re together sends something awful through Hank’s body. It’s a seeping feeling, like tar sinking into each of his arteries and veins. He can feel it in his lungs, choking him as he fights back the lump in his throat. Maybe this is what it feels like to drown in one’s sorrows, because Hank certainly is.

Connor looks so happy, _painfully_ so. Hank can’t remember the last time he saw the kid beam like that, certainly not these past few months.

He reaches the last photo in the bunch, the date it was taken weeks before Chloe’s final text.

“There’s nothing here,” he forcibly utters. Even that much is challenging to pull off with a straight face. His mind is itching for answers he can’t seem to scratch, and the phone is nothing but a dead end.

The estimated time of arrival at Chloe’s is another thirty minutes according to the GPS on Gavin’s phone, meaning Hank has time to return to the one source he knows contains answers. Or at least, he prays to any deity he knows it will.

He untucks the tablet from underneath his arm and opens a familiar list of memory logs. It doesn’t take years of detective work to know Connor and Chloe made up after the wedding, meaning any date after May 17th is bound to show their reunion. However, as a detective, his instincts are leading him towards any and all dates falling around January 5th of the current year. One will give him some closure, one will give him a broader spectrum of what he’s dealing with, and both will make him feel like dog shit in the end.

A thought springs into his mind to flip a coin, but Hank kills it immediately.

Instead, he lets fate take its hideous course, choosing the first log he sees nearest to either date. In the end, the victor is May 26th, 2039, and wouldn’t you know it Hank lucks out for once.

He doesn’t even consider the fact Gavin will be able to hear everything he’s witnessing, because the idea of privacy, along with all other conceivable thoughts, dies the moment the log begins.

At 12:30 PM EDT, Connor stands before a dingy, wooden, door with the numbers 102 nailed onto it. The numbers are spray-painted a hideous gold finish, with several sizable chips covering their entireties. He holds his closed fist up to the door, swings down, and hesitates. A full two minutes and thirteen seconds pass before he lifts up his hand again and knocks three times with purpose.

Connor’s gaze does circles as he darts his head down either side of the hall surrounding him. Similar doors with similar aged numerals line his paths, the carpet bellow his feet a sea of barf green. Wherever Hank’s partner finds himself in the past, it’s hardly a place any respectable apartment or hotel establishment would be considered in the 2030’s. Hell, it would be out of place in the nineties it seems to belong to.

A stiffening silence hangs in the air before it is cut down by the thunder of approaching footsteps. A door latch is undone from the inside, and Connor snaps his attention back to the door as the lock turns.

The sharp breath he takes in cuts deep inside of Hank.

Chloe’s face appears in the doorway as she just about throws it open. Her eyes widen, pupils dilating larger than the moon yet to hang over the sky that day. She stands with her hand on the doorway, stiff as a board and white as a sheet. Despite being designed with a complexion some have described as god-like, she is disheveled as if she fell from her perch in the sky. Not an ounce of makeup is to be seen on her face, and her hair is nothing but knots and tangles. Her waitress uniform is unbelievably wrinkled, as if it had been purposefully crumpled into a ball.

She releases a shuttered breath, while Connor continues to hold his breath.

“Connor.”

“Chloe…”

They stand there, frozen in place by some sort of spell before Connor breaks it. He moves to approach her, and Chloe has his arms wrapped around his chest in an instant. His arms are so around hers, his eyes closing as he lowers his head on top of hers and finally exhales.

Hank stares into a dark void as they embrace, his own reflection staring back at him with uncertainty.

Finally, Connor opens his eyes, his hands suddenly back at his sides as if nothing ever happened. “I want to apologize-“

“ _Stop._ ” Chloe’s words are weighted, as if they had been waiting for a chance to be cast off the edge fo her tongue. “I…I came on to you. I misread the situation. Connor…whatever happened, I’m sorry.”

Connor shakes his head. “It was a misunderstanding.” He must cock a smile, because Hank can hear it clear as day. “After all, I did confess my feelings for you rather bluntly.”

It takes Chloe a moment to react, but the laugh that follows is warm and aching. “Yeah, doesn’t get any more direct than that…I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

They freeze again, taking in each other as if they will soon disappear. Chloe is already a standing pile of ash, while Connor’s trembling could send him toppling at any given time. Something suffocating pushes against Hank’s windpipe as he continues to watch the silent exchange.

“What the fuck’s happening-?” Gavin’s voice shatters the tension.

Hank shushes him as Chloe moves to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear.

“Sorry I…I didn’t try to call you or anything earlier. I was just-“

“Scared?” Connor inquires.

“I was going to use ‘terrified you would never reach back out to me after,’ but that works too,” she smirks.

“The feeling’s mutual.” Connor holds out his right hand, and Chloe gives him her left in return. “I was going to contact you sooner…but I had to do something first. Can…c-can I come in?”

Chloe blinks. “Oh, I’m actually getting ready for work-“

Connor yanks his hand out of hers. “I’m sorry. Another time then-“

“No no no no no no no! _”_ Chloe snatches his hand back into hers. “Screw it, I’ll just call in sick. Get in here.”

“Androids do not experience illness-“ Connor tries to protest, but Chloe is already shoving him inside her apartment. The door slams behind him, the sound pulsing through the speakers on the tablet into Hank’s fingertips, and Chloe makes a hushed apology about the unnecessary use of force.

The apartment can’t be anything larger than 800 feet, and yet Chloe has managed to maximize the tiny space given to her with dozens of storage units and hangers. Most of her belongings appear to be various articles of clothing, and a plethora of thriving succulents ranging in colors of the rainbow. The walls are a much fresher coat of coral compared to the faded yellow lining the rest of the building, but the carpet has seen better days. Thankfully, most of it is covered up with plush throw rugs.

It’s a quaint living arrangement given what she had to work with, and while Hank may not have an eye for home improvement he has to appreciate her sense of design.

A couch stands poised in the center of the main room and Connor takes a seat against its baize cushions. Chloe follows suit on the other side, her fingers tapping against her thigh absently. “Sooooooo…”

“ _So_.” Connor suddenly clears his throat, his obvious effort to waste time only strengthening the knots in Hank’s stomach. “After the wedding, I realized a few things about myself that…have always been a part of me. It just…never occurred to me at the time because… _fuck_.”

He darts his eyes to the floor, a rug printed with smiling bees stares right back at him. One of his eyes twitches.

“I’m sorry. This is proving to be more…difficult than I thought it would be.”

“It’s okay,” Chloe assures him. “Whatever it is, take your time.”

Connor nods once, twice, then looks back to her. “Since my activation, and long before I deviated…I noticed I had troubling views with how other humans and deviants expressed romantic relations. Their use of…more passionate acts, for a lack of a better term…did not sit well with me. They still don’t, and I do not believe they ever will. That is just a part of who I am. Chloe…I’m asexual.”

The revelation settles onto Chloe as an unexpected surprise, her facial features arching skywards. “ _Ohhh.”_

For Hank, the news hits him like an atomic bomb.

Ferocious anger, a deep, seething hatred of his own inability to communicate tears him into shred in an instant. Hot, boiling shame is poured over his decaying form after the fact. All this time, _all this time_ , his partner had been feeling this way. _All this time_ Connor had been experiencing discomfort because of the social norm. All this time _Connor_ had kept his sexuality a secret from him, because of what? Out of the fear of rejection? Out of the fear that Hank may be disappointed in him?

 _Never_ in a million years would Hank reject who Connor is. In fact, the pride Connor’s coming out gives him is exponential. He would be floating above the clouds, touching the heavens above and swirling through the clouds if he weren’t so bitter with himself.

Yet, Connor never told him.

Whatever Hank did to deserve this, he hates himself for it. He wants to drag himself by the scruff of the neck and beat some sense into himself. He wants to take back every romance movie he ever made the kid sit through, every cheesy romance novel he told him to read ‘for the kick of it,’ _everything_. Whatever did it, whatever finally pushed his partner over the edge, he wants to take that moment and squash it like the parasite it is.

Most of all, Hank just wants to tell Connor how sorry he is. He wants to sit the kid down like he is now and tell him he accepts him for who he is. He wants Connor to hand him his heart only for him to hand it back with kindness and care. He wants to have the conversation he never had the possibility of having with Cole and end it with a tearful hug or friendly pat on the back, no matter how sappy it may be. It doesn’t matter when or where or how it would come about; Hank just wants to be there. He _wanted_ to be there.

How could he let this much distance come between them? What did he do wrong? What did he do _wrong?_

“After s-some reflection,” Connor stammers, trying desperately to continue while he’s ahead. “I decided to consult some experts…on the internet. But what I have researched about the asexual spectrum stands true for me: I do not have a desire to have sex, nor I feel I ever will. Kisses on the lips make me extremely uncomfortable, and sexual flattery or innuendos do not sit well with me. However, I enjoy other forms of physical affection, such as hand holding, hugging, and possibly others….I just do not have the proper experience to know what I truly do and do not enjoy. This leads me to believe I may be demiromantic o-or panromantic…but I’m not sure which I identify with more as of now. No matter which I may be, I simply do not have any sexual attraction to anyone. ”

Connor tilts his head down towards his lap, his hands gripping at the fabric of his pants for dear life.

“I had no idea there were so many kinds of sexualities…I never really had a reason to explore the spectrum until I met you. Since I deviated, most of my time was spent learning more about the world around me, as well as dealing with the politics that came with it. Learning about myself has always come second. ..”

He looks to Chloe, a steady sea locked between their eyes.

“When I told you I loved you...what I was truly trying to say was how I fell for your kindness, and your humor, and for...the way you make me feel. Getting to know you has been an experience like no other, i-in a good way!,” Connor croaks. “I do love you…and I’m sorry for leaving so suddenly before without an explanation. At least when I leave now, you’ll have one.”

The features of Chloe’s face relax, falling back into place to form a look of solidarity. She smiles, a soft, tender smile that shows no teeth, and reaches her hand out for his again. Slowly, Connor reaches for hers.

“Thank you for telling me. I thought that after you left…well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. It takes guts to come out; I'm so fucking proud of you.”

“You’re the first person I’ve told,” Connor admits, putting yet another puncture wound into Hank’s jugular.

“Not the last, hopefully?”

“No, definitely not.”

Another smile. Another honest to _God_ smile. Hank presses his palms into his eyes, his teeth catching the edge of his tongue as he grits them. A metallic taste coats the corners of his mouth, but it barely registers to him. He only senses the pressure of the void he’s thrown himself into.

“But you said you were leaving?” Chloe questions him. “What do you mean? Where are you going?”

“U-Uh,” Connor stutters, “W-Well I assumed once I told you, your interest in me would be nonexistent and we would part ways-“

Hank puts his hands down, reopening his eyes just as Chloe grabs the nearest projectile she can find, which happens to be a mechanical pencil, and hurls it at Connor’s head. It misses, deflecting somewhere off Connor’s torso with a quiet _tap_.

Connor blinks. “Why…did you do that?”

“To get you to stop rambling.” Chloe’s cheeks crease as she frowns heavily. “Do you honestly think I wouldn’t be interested in you just because you’re asexual? Or that I’d stop being your friend just like _that?_ ”

Connor blinks again, much more rapidly. “I assumed that because of…of the kiss you would only be interested in a more physical romantic relationship, and our friendship would suffer for it…” His voice trails off towards the end, as if it finally occurs to him he is fulfilling his own prophecy. “No. We’re not like that.”

Chloe’s frown turns upwards. “No, we’re not. That night, when I kissed you…you were saying so many things I wanted to tell you for so long. But I was scared, and when you ran away after that…I thought I lost you.”

The skin on Connor’s right hand fades away in an instant, and by the way he jerks afterwards it must take him just as much by surprise as it does to Hank. He inspects his own hand as if were covered in C4, but when he looks to Chloe again her hand is exposed and waiting. Their fingers link together, digits sliding in-between plastic knuckles.

The rush of memories that follows makes Hank’s head swim. Static curtains part to show a would-be tragic tale of a dying romance portrayed by two familiar androids. Longing glances, texts assassinated before they ever had a chance to be sent, hours spent in the mirror by both of the accused. He sees every spare moment Chloe spent at work to check her messages, and every lunch break Connor took to visit her. He watches Chloe hang up her orange dress with shaking hands, and Connor’s blurred vision as the definition of asexual shines across the monitor at his desk.

Months’ worth of memories-of talking and laughing and connecting and caring-all come together to slam down against Hank’s shore in a gigantic wave. He has been in love before, even married once before it crumbled with him. The beauty of their bond is not lost on him and it stands stronger than steel.

Meanwhile, Hank hangs on to the railing of his, wondering if he just hasn’t felt the impact of it going out from under him yet

The connection is severed, reaching its conclusion with the night everything fell into and out of place. Hank spies Connor hurling himself over the Manfred’s fence from Chloe’s perspective for half a second before she is all he sees. There is starlight in her eyes and a blue sky as her cheeks, the rays of the sun embedded in each individual strand of her hair.

“Wow,” She breathes.

“Wow,” Connor echoes. “For a detective, I did a poor job of assessing the situation.”

Chloe laughs, their hands still knit together as she kneels over herself. It’s infectious, and soon enough Connor is joining in on the amusement. Two lovestruck androids, teenagers basically, lost in their own little world. She composes herself before he does, her back straightening as she takes his other hand in hers.

“Look, I’ve learned a lot about myself since I deviated, and…I know that I don’t feel the same way as you when it comes to physical attraction. But I know that I care about you, Connor, and…a-and I want to be with you. I love you for who you are, and not being attracted to me sexually doesn't change that.”

Connor doesn’t ask her for a reason why. He doesn’t ask what this makes them now. He simply nods his head and says, “I know.”

Chloe lifts his hands to her lips and presses a short kiss to his knuckles. “I really, really missed you.”

“I missed you, as well,” Connor speaks softly. “I think it’s too late now to call in sick, unfortunately.”

She chuckles. “Screw it. That excuse wasn’t going to work anyway.”

There’s muffled pounding, and Hank is startled to find the source is coming from the present and not the past. Gavin Reed is patting the back of his seat, an uneasy look on his face.

“We’re, uh, here.”

 

**June 30, 2040**

**10:46 PM EDT**

 

 

The elevator ride up to Chloe’s apartment is agonizingly slow, almost as insufferable as the walk across the parking lot had been. The questions bouncing around in Detective Reed’s mind were screaming out for the lieutenant to answer, and at this point in the night Hank has just about had enough of the world’s questioning in general.

“So, you just…have his brain laid out in front of you and you can watch any memory you choose at will?”

“I told you to stop asking questions, so shut the hell up,” Hank growls. A small part of him is impressed the man managed to hold out for so long before bursting. Every other part of him wants to bash Gavin’s teeth in.

“That’s really fucking creepy, Hank. Gotta admit it.”

“I wasn’t asking for your approval,” he snaps. “Besides, his memories are the only thing that’ve given me a lead to find this girl. I’m trying to save his damn life.”

Gavin shrugs. “Still.”

The elevator slows to a standstill, the doors parting open with a curt _ding_. A familiar hallway of yellow paint and stained carpeting awaits them.

“Look, I’ll deal with the fallout for it later,” Hank grumbles quietly as they exit the metal box. He says it low enough in an attempt to avoid being heard, but Gavin shoots him a glance in light of his futile effort. “I don’t care what I have to do…I’m not just gonna let Connor die when I _know_ there’s something I can do about it. If you have any opinions on the matter, you can shove them up your ass. Got it?”

Gavin pops his lips, the window caused by it showing the points of his canines before it falls into a sneer. “Always so fucking hostile. Since when do you care what I think?”

“ _Hmm,_ ” Hank hums as a warning. “I still don’t, asshole.”

Suddenly, the younger man drops his angered façade. “Well, I may be an asshole…but I’m sorry about Connor. Really, I am. It fucking sucks to see you like this, taking my shit and rolling over. Not to mention you look just like shit.”

Of all the strings of words that could possibly make Hank Anderson laugh tonight, it’s Gavin’s messy attempt of a sincere comment. “It does fucking suck, and I do look like shit…thank you.”

Gavin nods, and not another word is ever spoken between them.

They reach Chloe’s door still cloaked in that silence. The metal numbers nailed to the door leave a branding on Hank’s brain, a permanent 102 embedded into his waking thoughts. Gavin pounds his closed fist against the door five consecutive times, only for an eerily quiet to follow afterwards. No footsteps are to be heard against the carpeting, nor the jingling of a lock turning form the inside.

The door to their right, however, does open. An older woman, a few years ahead of Hank in appearance steps out into the hall dressed in a ruffled, pink bathrobe. “What the hell you knockin’ so loud for?”

Hank reaches for a badge he left at Jericho while Gavin swiftly holds up his. “Detroit Police, ma’am. We’re here on a case to ask a couple of questions. You know the lady who lives here?”

“Talking about Chloe? Blonde girl, kinds short?”

“Yes, that’s her,” Hank butts in. “She here tonight?”

The woman shakes her head. “Haven’t seen Chloe in months. Keeps paying her rent apparently, ‘cause I haven’t seen anyone come up to kick ‘er out. She in trouble or something? Seemed like a kind kid. Never made any noise.”

Hank’s blood turns to solid ice, his lead heart beating with the volume of a jet engine. “ _What?_ ”

Gavin whips a notepad out of his jacket pocket. “Ma’am, do you know the exact date you last saw Chloe here at her apartment?”

She twists the knot in her sash as she thinks, jaw locked in concentration. “Sometime in January. I remember seeing her and her boyfriend the day after New Year’s, but I can’t remember if that was the last day _ever._ ”

“Boyfriend tall and skinny? Brown hair, brown eyes?”

“Yeah, that’s him. What happened? They go off and do something stupid?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. I’m going to need your name and phone number for further questioning-“

By this point, Gavin’s words have faded into nothing but a faint whistle in Hank’s ears. The irregular thumping of his heart takes up everything else, and if he weren’t currently holding his breath he’s sure it would be a shuttered rasp. Absolute panic settles underneath his skin like an itchy jacket, a prickling sensation traveling up his spine in drones.

He has no idea what to do next, where to search, or who to ask for questions. All Hank does know is Chloe gone, and with her goes his only lead.

In his mind, Connor is as good as dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: is it too late to shoe-horn rk900 in here? get some reed900 going on?  
> brain: yes. absolutely yes.  
> me: well fuck.


	10. Fate's Design

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gavin does some investigating. Hank breaks. A familiar face shows up, but they're not familiar, but not too not familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This upcoming year is shaping up to be A Wild Ride so take this chapter and pray for me, dear readers.
> 
> This chapter brought to you by Pierre and letters from The Great Comet of 1812, aka the only two songs I listened to while writing this near 3,000 words angst pile. Please enjoy and as always thanks for the support!!!

**June 30, 2040**

**11:13 PM EDT**

Forty-seven minutes shy of being abandoned for six months without the slightest taste of water and Chloe’s wide arrange of succulents continues to thrive in her apartment. The same cannot be said for her or Hank at this time.

Gavin’s footsteps are absorbed by the drab carpet below him, his weight shifting from one heel to the other as his focus travels about the apartment. He eyes each speck of dust with suspicion, fiddling with the bent bobby pin in his pocket as he tries the stump the jigsaw puzzle around him. An excuse stands on the tip of tongue for the landlord that may or may not ask about why two strange men have broken into one of their rooms in the dead of night, but he swallows it back down each time he stumbles upon something attention-worthy.

For instance, the pile of bills that are absent from both the mailbox downstairs and the sorry excuse for a kitchen countertop. A rough 180 days has passed since Chloe last entered the building, and not a single person has left an envelop or strongly-worded letter demanding any payment. It’s a miracle quite frankly, one Gavin wished would happen to him.

Still, not all miracles are good omens.

Pink and orange potted cacti watch Gavin as he crosses the living area, passing the sullen figure of Hank Anderson sitting on Chloe’s couch. The older man is hunched over, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, given the detective a not-so-enjoyable view of the back of his skull. The line of black stitching desperately trying to tug Hank’s tender, red skin together makes something in his stomach lurch to his throat, but he manages to swallow it down.

 _It’s just another missing person’s case,_ Gavin has to remind himself despite Hank’s palpable distress, or his current state of health, or Connor apparently on the verge of death, or the smiling face of a certain RT600 sitting on a nearby coffee table.

Just another case. There is no need for the sudden tingling sensation running along his back.

Gavin phone vibrates in his back pocket, and when he pulls it out a new message is awaiting him from Tina. No doubt she’ll give him some grievance for waking her up for work so late, but then again that _is_ part of her job in the first place. Either way, Gavin knows he’d be bitching too if he were in her shoes. Crime may never rest, but god damn it he wants to sometimes.

 **Chen:** No reported cases of any missing RT600s in Detroit since January. Vacation maybe?

If the apartment is anything to go by, Gavin knows Chloe hasn’t been on some tropical cruise in the Bahamas the past half year. He thinks of the hundreds of missing persons cases he’s been handed along with his normal batches of homicide investigations, most of which has been reported around 24 hours after the person’s disappearance.

Then he thinks of the visit Ms. Claymore claims she took to the DPD station at the beginning of the year. Gavin knows a liar when he sees one, and the truth he felt looking in that woman’s eyes cannot be denied.

God, just a couple hours ago he was laying on his couch with a cold beer in his hand, watching Die Hard with his cat asleep at his feet. Now he’s breaking into an android’s apartment to save another android. A deep-rooted insecurity yells at him for his absence of anger, but in this time of need Gavin can’t seem to revert to his old ways.

He’s just tired. After a good night’s rest, he’ll shake off whatever’s taken him so off guard.

“We got a problem,” Gavin announces, tucking his phone back into his pocket. “According to Chen, we’ve got a _missing_ missing person’s report. Either shit went south on our end or something’s up.”

He looks over to the owner of a pair of deaf ears and frowns.

“Anderson? Earth to Anderson. _Hank._ ”

No response. Gavin tries to quiet the sigh that escapes him and walks over to the couch. He stands before the older man with his arms crossed.

“Listen, I can take you to the station with me to search through a mountain of paperwork, or I can drop your ass off back at that android office complex. Your choice, but if you don’t speak up I’m gonna leave you here.”

His words sound as hollow as he means them, but Hank doesn’t seem to notice either way. The lieutenant lifts his head out of his hands and stares up at Gavin with tired, blue eyes.

“What the fuck am I gonna do, Gavin?”

Gavin can’t help but snort. “You’re asking _me_ for advice?”

Hank looks downwards again, his hands clenching into weak fists and unclenching themselves repeatedly. The sight impacts Gavin harder than he thinks it should, like stubbing his toe on a cinder block intentionally and thinking it’ll somehow soften the blow. He untangles his arms and rubs the back of his neck with a rough hand, the slight callouses on his fingertips now the texture of sandpaper.

“Look, if you _really_ wanna know what I think…you should be with Connor. I’m taking you back to Jericho, so you can watch his brain vlogs in peace. C’mon, let’s go.”

The lieutenant stays fixed to the couch, his hands now stuck in a tight grip. Then he rises, like a corpse pushing itself out of its grave with decayed muscles and deteriorated bones. Gavin stares at the dying man before him-at the _ghost_ before him-and feels tremor go through his body. He asks a god he stopped praying to years ago if Hank Anderson is already sitting at their table.

“What am I gonna do, Gavin?” Hank asks again, with a clear break in his voice.

Gavin clenches his jaw and releases a shaky breath. “I don’t know, Hank. I don’t know.”

 

**July 1, 2040**

**12:01 PM EDT**

 

Hank starts the first day of the new month sitting in the back of Gavin’s car, watching the end of one of Connor’s memories while the city of Detroit swirls into a sickly mess of color and brick behind him.

Log #14756 takes place on an uneventful day in June. The weather is unnoteworthy drab and cloudy, despite the time of the season. That’s just Michigan for you, and fifty years of living in the same area has made Hank quite accustomed to that. Strangers walk past Connor as he makes his way back to the police station with a takeout bag in his hand, their faces just as memorable as the generic thank you message printed out on the plastic bag. It must have been another busy day in the bullpen, judging by the fact that he’s not there himself. Fifty-year-old joints have nothing on the dexterity and speed of silicon and steel.

It’s fine. Nothing is wrong. It’s just a normal day like any other day. With ten minutes left until the memory ends, nothing of importance should come up. It should be fine.

Then Connor’s phone goes off and everything is not fine.

He reaches into his jacket and is met with a message from Chloe on an illuminated screen.

 **< 3 Chloe:** i should probably meet hank sometime

Connor types back a message with his thumb at light speed.

 **Connor:** A completely unexpected message but yes, you should. I will have to arrange a time and date.

 **< 3 Chloe:** cool

 **< 3 Chloe:** i gotta make a good impression on your dad :P

 **Connor:** He is not my biological father, but I am entirely confident he will like you.

 **< 3 Chloe:** yeah im fucking great

Connor giggles, a sound Hank has never heard in his life, and tucks his phone back into his pocket none the wiser. Oh, how badly he wants to grab his partner by the shoulders and drag him to his past self. How desperately he needs the timing of the past to benefit him today instead of continuously tearing him down further. His high cholesterol mixed with the decaying cells in his body are going to kill him far before his expiration date.

The irregular beating of his heart rattles his aching rib cage as Connor makes his way into the station. He’s surely flashing a smile at everyone who walks passed him judging by the black indent in the bottom of the feed. Hot tears get caught behind his Adam’s apple at the sheer kindness the kid shows to those around him, and the skip in his step after receiving Chloe’s messages.

“Should’ve been me,” he mutters to no one in particular. Maybe the Fates will hear him and take pity, or they’ll deliver a harsher punishment after hearing his pleas. How is it as a fifty-five-year-old man with a blood disease and years of known suicidal intention he’ll somehow outlive his immortal android partner simply because he avoided being in the wrong place at the wrong time? The last time he had asked why he must continue to live on despite his many faults, he had an unhealthy amount of whisky in his gut and a revolver with a single bullet on his hand.

It is the dead of night, the cold outside is seeping all his natural warmth, and he is in absolute agony. Two similar names are tossed around in a whirlpool of thoughts inside his brain, and the more Hank thinks about them the more similarities he finds.

Connor makes his way to Hank’s desk with sixty seconds to spare. He moves to place the takeout bag down but stops when he notices himself rise suddenly from his office chair.

“I have your lunch. There’s also something I’d like to discuss with you, if we-“

“Later,” Hank grunts as he strolls right past his partner. When he reaches for the bag instead of probing Connor further on his question, he wants to strangle himself. “Got a new lead on some dealers up north. We gotta move in fast.”

Once again, the case pulls them apart and Connor is left in Hank’s dust. He gasps as if to speak but stays silent. He strides quickly to catch up, making about three steps before the scene freezes and the car slowly comes to a halt.

Gavin tugs his keys out of the ignition and the engine immediately dies out. “We’re here.” He swings the driver door open and hops out hastily, as if he’s trying to avoid the storm brewing in the backseat. Hank watches the younger detective shift fretfully outside until he eventually trudges himself out of his seat and joins him. Without even a nod, they begin their trek across the parking lot back to Jericho.

Only a few stars sprinkle the night sky, each glowing with a strength and vibrancy Hank think he’ll never regain. How badly he would envy them if he could find the heart to.

The lobby is a ghost town, as is the hallway leading up to the elevator. Hank is but a balloon tied to Gavin’s wrist as the younger man leads him into the steel box and asks which button to press. They are lifted up and pressured down more and more with each passing second. Both men have the same faces stuck in their mind and can still see them even when they close their eyes. Hank knows even if he balled his out brown and blue irises would still be staring back at him.

Mild frigid air, born from artificial means, hits Hank like a slap to the face he most dearly needs. The lively walls of Jericho greet him with sympathetic waves, voices practically curling off of every stroke of paint and slash of color telling him to lift his chin up. When surrounded by so many hopes and dreams, he should find it within himself to hold his chin up. He can’t.

They turn out of the elevator, Hank’s body dragging itself alongside Gavin until he comes to a dead stop. “What the _fuck?!_ ”

The thick cloudy veil parts from Hank’s eyes and he sees Connor. Connor. _Connor_ standing down the hall, admiring one of the many murals with a hand to his chin. Connor, standing on his own two feet with a skull topped with slicked-back hair. Connor awake and moving and _alive_.

 But no, something about this picture is wrong. The pristine white jacket, the stiffness of his black slacks, the shine of his loafers, the lack of curls on his head all scream _wrong_. Acid burns in Hank’s stomach as he tries to take in what he’s seeing, and a horrible hammer is taken to his sternum bone. Tears of radiation gloss over in his eyes, and before he can fathom what he’s doing he’s marching down the hallway.

Gavin swears behind him, his footsteps bouncing alongside his heel. Behind Connor (No, not Connor. It can’t be) stands Markus and another female android, the distance between them and Hank’s partner as wide as an ocean. Markus has his arms locked at his side while the woman is an angered bear ready to bust out of her cloaked forest.

 _Connor Connor Connor_ , is all Hank can think. _Connor Connor Cole Connor Connor Connor-_

“ _Connor!_ ”

The volume of his voice knocks him back, as well as everyone besides the imposture before him. Connor looks slowly towards him, his face completely lifeless. Hank locks his blue eyes with another pair far fairer than his and is truly sickened by the sight.

This isn’t his Connor. He knows this, but… _this isn’t his Connor_.

“Lieutenant Anderson,” Connor’s voice says in a dead-even tone. “I was waiting for you to return. I am sorry for the misunderstanding, but I am not my predecessor. My name is Richard, I’m an RK900 model designed after the RK800. I can see why you’re confused.”

Confusion is an accurate representation of how Hank is taking this. He would have gone with mortified or fucking traumatized, but confusion works just fine. He takes a step closer to Richard, even with the risk of catching frostbite from the sheer icy stronghold the android appears to be. Everything good and unique and wonderful about Connor has been stripped away, leaving nothing but a tall glacier in his place.

“W-Why…?”

“I am a private investigator sent here by my employer to keep tabs on your partner. I mean none of you harm; I am only here to access the situation and report my findings.”

“’course it’s a private fucking investigator,” Gavin not-so-subtly tries to mutter under his breath, right as the female android stomps right up to Richard’s face.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?!” she growls, her face nothing but teeth and snarl.

Markus grabs her gently by the arm and pulls her back. “North, please-“

“Who are you working for?” Hank demands, cutting him off. The bite of his bark is clear as day as he dangles from the last thread of his rope. Chloe’s path led him to a cliffside then trapped him with a mudslide. Connor’s memories are constant dead-ends that only manage to worsen his depression. Here before him stands a new lead, one that came to him personally, and he intends to explore every ounce of it.

He’s a detective god damnit, whether he’s on duty or not.

“I’m afraid that’s confidential information, Lieutenant,” Richard answers. His coy tone fuels something sinister in Hank’s soul. “What I can tell you is they mean Connor no harm as well. I simply need to know of his whereabouts these past six months, seeing that my employer has told me he has kept up his end of the bargain.”

“Bargain? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Like I said, I cannot disclose any information about my client to you. I can only do my job, which requires me to question you. Can you tell me where Connor spends his off days from work-?”

Hank has his hands on Richard’s jacket collar before the android can get another word out. He attempts to pull him down to his eye level, but sturdy metal has never caved in as easily as pure bone strength. It only propels Hank’s anger forth into trying to bring him down again, despite Markus’ protests behind him.

“You better tell me what the fuck is going on here before I… _I-_ “

“You’re not going to lay a finger on me,” Richard declares, a sudden drop in his tone. “Judging by your heartrate and clear compassion you have for Connor, hurting a face completely identical to his doesn’t seem to be something you intend on doing. You are scared, a response that I would deem appropriate given my sudden appearance, but I came here on neutral terms and I intend to keep it that way. Now please release me so we may begin to do work that is actually beneficial to Connor’s life.”

Watching the words come from Richard’s mouth-from _Connor’s mouth_ -instantly destroys every bit of Hank left that was willing to put up a fight. This may not be his partner, but one can still be left shaking from a nightmare even if it isn’t being real.

This must all be a nightmare, because Hank can’t imagine what he’ll do if he fails to wake up soon.

He _hears_ Connor begging for his help, and Hank’s hands fall from Richard’s jacket like hard rain cascading down a slanted window pane. The way Richard smooths out the gripped fabric sends him over the edge, seeing the way his reach for his turtleneck underneath to straighten out his collar. He squeezes his eyes shut, biting at his lower lip until his tongue is coated with nickel. A hand lands on his shaking shoulders, an invitation to a more private place to allow himself to break, and he gives in instantly.

“You can ask your questions later, Richard,” Markus informs him. “North, you don’t mind keeping him company, do you?”

“Not at _all_ ,” the woman replies slowly. They are the last words Hank hears, or bothers to pay attention to, as Markus leads him down the hall to god knows where.

If Hank listens closely, however, he swears he can hear the Fates laughing at his misery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter I told myself I could never fit any reed900 in here. Now look at me.
> 
> IN MY DEFENSE I FOUND A PLOT HOLE AND I NEEDED RICHARD AND GAVIN TO BE HERE FOR PLOT REASONS I'M NOT JUST TRASH


	11. Knowledge and Growth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gavin sticks around. Richard asks some questions. Hank opens his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk if this means anything but I cried writing this chapter sooooooooo
> 
> Also I've been watching an unhealthy amount of Brooklyn 99 and I think it shows in the way I wrote Gavin and Richard. Oops
> 
> School starts tomorrow so buckle up for a random ass upload schedule. I'm gonna finish this fic if it kills me so just stick with me, and thank you in advance for being patient. I've got a lot planned and I'm so excited for what comes after this chapter. In my mind, I see it as the true turning point of the story.
> 
> As always, thank you for the support!!!

**July 1, 2040**

**1:24 AM EDT**

Harsh moonlight billows in from the window Gavin finds beside him, illuminating every crease and fold of his jeans. With solid sheetrock to his back and a depiction of a warm, painted hearth before him it gives him a longing for home. Home being a shabby apartment on the east side of town but it’s home nonetheless.

Over an hour has passed since he dropped Hank off at Jericho, and after his coworker was carted away suddenly by an android he’s found it difficult to force himself out. The reason keeping him trapped in that hallway isn’t because he cares about the lieutenant’s well-being, or is curious to know about Connor’s condition, or learn more about that cryptid doppelganger of the plastic prick’s.

He’s, well…Whatever the reason, it certainly isn’t any of those previous listed.

His body longs for a kick of Nicotine or the revival a cup of caffeine could bring him. It’s been a rough couple of days at the bullpen cleaning up the loose ends of Anderson’s case without him there. The red tape he’s had to tear down has been a nightmare, and the added stress the whole situation brings has put Fowler in an even worse mood than usual. To think he was going to actually take it easy and go home for a night.

Gavin’s fingertips slide along the leather of his jacket as he bides his time, waiting for someone ask him to leave or throw him out the front doors. The threads of woven fabric beneath his shoes is too soft; he feels as if he’s sinking into an isolating oblivion. At least the hard slap of concrete to his heels would stop the hall from spinning in his vision. God, he’s exhausted.

Suddenly, his nostrils catch a heavenly scent, the scent only minimum-wage baristas and a blessed kitchen appliance can provide.

Coffee.

He fights back the urge to lick his lips, while his stomach fails to repress a gurgle. Curiosity turns his head towards the direction of the scent down the hall, only for disgust to kill his previous excitement. Walking over to him with a steaming cup in his right hand is Richard, the android appearing just as cold and stoic as he was last they met.

Gavin is barely given a chance to sneer as the private investigator is by his side not a moment later, towering over the detective by a good half a foot. A shadow is casted over his face as he looks up to meet those stark blue eyes.

“Detective Reed, I am very grateful you chose to stick around,” Richard smiles. It’s thin and small but it’s there and Gavin hates it. “I thought you would enjoy a cup of coffee while I question you. I hope you enjoy dark roast.”

Gavin does indeed not enjoy dark roast. He likes his coffee with heavy hazelnut cream and a buttload of sugar, but at this time of night it’s unlikely he’ll be offered an opportunity for an energy boost again. Maintaining eye contact, Gavin takes the coffee from Richard and holds it close to his chest. The warmth seeps through his shirt and helps to aid the tension in his tight shoulders.

A beat of silence passes. Richard continues to hover over the detective like a hawk, the simile putting Gavin in the position of his prey. His skin crawls as the snowstorms trapped in the android’s irises take away the comforting heat of his beverage and leave him stranded in his corner.

Then Richard’s smile falls, brows lowering. “You’re welcome.”

He takes a large step away from Gavin, and the detective nearly gasps for air. When standing in the moonlight, the absence of such an imposing shadow makes the android seem like an entirely different being. The glossiness of his hair makes him appear more like a member of a retro band he used to listen to from the 90’s, and the slight intent in his upper sleeve completely gives away the built-in shoulder pads his jacket has. It takes away any Gavin’s uneasiness, converting it into something far more juvenile.

“So…Richard, right?”

“Correct.”

“So like Dick?”

Richard chooses to ignore his question. “How long have you known Connor, Detective Reed?”

Gavin takes a sip of his coffee to hide his growing smirk. A wave of bitterness settles onto his tongue. “A while. Whenever that deviant uprising shit started.”

“It would be more beneficial to me if I had an exact date.”

“Don’t you have a super computer brain or something? Why not just pull yourself up a calendar?”

The LED on Richard’s temple flashes red for a brief moment before settling back into blue. “I am not a walking computer, detective. Despite how superior my IQ may seem upon appearance compared to your lower than average one, I can see why you would think so.”

Gavin sputters, coffee spewing from his lips and trailing down his chin. “Did y-jus-?” He tries to say as he cups his mouth with his hand. “I’m naw-! Y-!”

“Please just answer the question, detective. I don’t feel like getting dragged into a battle of wits I will most surely win.” He feigns a look of fatigue, a look that would set Gavin off if he wasn’t so himself.

“Late 2038, probably late October or early November. There, happy?”

Richard exhales through his nose. “I would be if you had provided an exact date, but I guess your answer will have to suffice.”

God, if Gavin hadn’t chosen to stay up late watching Die Hard he would John McClane this plastic asshole.

“What would you say your relationship is with Connor? Simply coworkers or perhaps something more?”

A responsible part of Gavin’s brain takes initiative and speaks the truth instead of a sarcastic response. “Coworkers. Nothing more, nothing less. He’s already got a girlfriend, I think anyway.”

“Yes, Chloe. Lieutenant Anderson filled me in on the details of their relationship. The way you phrased that makes it sound as if you have conflicting views on the matter. Would you like to elaborate more on your use of ‘already?’”

The noise that comes out of Gavin’s mouth is similar to that of a strangled goose. “ _No thank you_. We’re just coworkers. Connor’s not my type anyway. I like guys who aren’t…uh…Connor.”

A slender brow arches across Richard’s forehead. “Guess that takes me off your list. What a shame.”

“Hey, what _did_ you ask Hank anyway?” Gavin questions him suddenly, not at all to change the subject.

“Some more in-depth questions. Questions you would most likely not give satisfying answers to.”

“Laugh it up prick,” Gavin sneers. “I mean, what did you ask him? I don’t know if you can tell because you may not feel emotions or shit, but that guy ain’t exactly stable right now, y’hear?”

Richard’s expression grows dark in an instant, his jaw visibly tightening as he crosses back into Gavin’s bubble of personal space with a single, small step. “I am a _deviant_ , detective. Let me make that perfectly clear for you right here and now. I hope you are better at paying attention than answering questions, because you would hate to make an enemy out of me. I was made to hunt my own kind, but that is _not_ what I intend to do with my life, understood?”

Gavin stares back into the snowstorm again and feels the chill slicing at his skin. Sharp flakes of snow leave gashes on his eyelids as he tries to hold his gaze. The only break in the weather is the pulsating red light from Richard’s LED. “Sure, yeah, I got ya.”

The investigator back away once more, this time his expression lingering. Gone is Gavin’s foothold on the conversation and all the heat his beverage provided.

“Now, has Connor ever mentioned Chloe to you in the past six months?”

“N-No. I just found out about it listening to one of those weird memory things…” he trails off. Each word that comes out of his mouth feels too invasive, like he’ll breach some sort of invisible barrier he’s not allowed to cross. He has been dragged into a life that’s not his own, one he frankly hasn’t earned the right to be in.

Then the gun and badge at his sides grow heavy, and something swells inside him.

“Seeing as I’m the actual cop here and you’re just a glorified eavesdropper, I’m gonna need you to hold on to your questions until you tell me everything you know about this Chloe gal yourself.”

“That’s odd,” Richard cocks his head to the side. “I could have sworn at this time of night you would be off duty.”

Gavin has to fight the urge to clench the hand around his coffee cup. “Citizen’s arrest is a thing for ya, ain’t it? I’ll drag your ass to my station if I need to. You can’t just waltz into a missing person’s case _and_ an attempted murder case without some legal trouble, tin can.”

“This is all just occurring to you now?”

“Yes-I mean-! _Shut the hell up!_ _I_ ask the questions here!”

Richard nods. “I’m sure you do. Since you don’t appear to be as cooperative as the lieutenant, I will have to finish your questioning later. I assure you I am more than willing to answer _your_ _questions_ when you are actually on duty.” The android spares a glance down at his chest as he reaches into his coat pocket. He pulls out a snow-white business card and holds it out for Gavin to take. “For when you’re done acting childish and wish to work together.”

Gavin grits his teeth hard enough to crack them, his hands shaking with silent fury. How easy it would be to ball them into fists and propel himself forward. How easy it would be to launch himself like an animal against this hunter he believes is before him. How _easy_ it would be to give into old habits and rid himself of the pit in his gut.

Instead, he takes the card and shoves it into his pocket with the strength to tear one of the seams.

“Fuck you,” he growls.

“Fuck you too,” Richard smiles, LED bright blue. “Until next time.”

The android turns his back and walks down the hall, and Gavin takes the opportunity to raise his cup to the sky and hurl it in his direction. He does not account for the remainder of scolding coffee still inside or his less than perfect aim, earning him a swift bath of boiling liquid and several second-degree burns.

 

**July 1, 2040**

**1:24 AM EDT**

 

MEMORY LOG #14861

DATE: June 29, 2039

8:32 PM EDT

 

There is a mechanical method to the way Connor chops vegetables. The motion of his knife is precise and quick, his hands working to man an effective conveyor belt in transferring the chopped food into plastic Tupperware. Physical movement has always been a sensitive topic to discuss with Connor; any mention of the tightness of his shoulders or the timing of his steps earns one a cold shoulder or a weepy android for the rest of the day.

Practice does yield results and allowing Connor to do mundane tasks for a certain period of time does eventually help his joints to relax. Even now as Hank watches Connor start cutting up another peeled carrot, his wrists move in a more fluid manner. His grip fluctuates more as he moves around his tiny station on the kitchen counter.

As much as Hank hates feeling like a charity case letting Connor do most of his chores, the subtle ounce of joy the memory gives him cannot be denied. If the numbing ache in his chest were gone, he would feel much more of it.

“Why can’t these fuckers just come out of the shadows and give us a break already?” he hears himself grumble offscreen. Connor’s movements falter for just a moment before picking back up where he left off.

“Given the amount of evidence we have, we may not need them to,” Connor comments. He snips off the head of the disemboweled carrot before him and places it in a separate bowl filled with waste. “Would you like me to chop up some peppers to add to the stir fry as well?”

“I just don’t get where they’re fucking hiding,” he continues on his tangent. “Half the city’s already been covered. We’re right on top of them…we _should_ be right on top of them…”

Connor grabs a packet of green bell peppers from off screen and cuts into them regardless of Hank’s lack of confirmation. “If we are, then they’ll eventually slip up. That’s where we step in, not tonight. Peanut or hoisin sauce?”

A familiar ringtone echoes in the air, and one of Connor’s hands retreats from the remains of the vegetables to pull out his phone. It’s another text from Chloe, of course it is. Hank braces himself for the emotional impact, holding his breath to ack as a life preserver as he is thrown into crashing waves.

 **< 3 Chloe: **im sorry its late and i dont mean to bother you but if you have time can you come over?

Connor blinks once, twice, then types back at record speed.

 **Connor:** I will quickly finish up what I am doing and come over. What is wrong?

It takes nearly a minute before Chloe responds. In that time, Connor manages to sweep up the partially-chopped peppers into a new bin and make his way over to the fridge. Inside are many other prepared ingredients for tonight’s dinner, including a full pan of seasoned chicken.

 **< 3 Chloe:** actually its dumb just forget about it

 **< 3 Chloe:** you’ve prob been working hard all day anyway

 **< 3 Chloe:** enjoy your night. tell hank i said hi. and tell hank who i am if you havent yet

 **Connor:** No, I will introduce you two properly one day. I’m sure whatever you need me for is important and I am already done with my previous task. Are you hurt or require anything for me to bring?

Another minute passes, long enough for Connor to exit the kitchen and passes Hank on his way out. His past self is hunched over his dining table with a case file spread out before him. Physical copies of red ice photos and mug shots of their previously caught perps stare back at him and gloat of his shortcomings. He recognizes many of the steely-eyed people before him, all ranging in ages and occupations, but each have given him one sleepless night he’ll never get back.

Connor shrugs on a jacket hanging by the front door as Chloe’s newest message comes through.

 **< 3 Chloe: **just yourself

 **< 3 Chloe:** im having a bad night and i didn’t want to be alone

 **Connor:** I’ll be there in half an hour-

His thumb circles his keypad before he hits send, then flies into another typing flurry.

 **Connor:** -Do you want me to call you on my way over? Sometimes it helps Hank on his off days when we’re apart.

The message sends Hank reeling, unimaginable torment hitting him as a fire storm of arrows and leaving him as nothing but a broken target. Pieces of himself scatter across the floor of Jericho’s rec room, embedding themselves in the cushions of the couch and the strands of carpet below his feet. There is only so much left for him to lose, and not much of him was there to start with.

Not since Cole, not since this case, not since his diagnosis.

What he would give to call Connor now, to hear the kid’s voice on the other side to talk him through this. Connor, who carries more wisdom than Hank has achieved in his fifty-five years on the earth. Connor, who carries such grace with his existence by simply being who he is. Connor, who had been to hell and back and chose to cross over into the light instead of living in the dark like Hank.

He would hold his phone to his ear and say he’s sorry. He’d apologize for never being there when the kid needed him, for pushing him away to swan dive into a case he let himself get too close to. He’d beg on his hands and knees to know why Connor chose to keep so many secrets from him, and in return would spill all of his. He wants to sit them both down and have the coming-out talk he was never there for and wants to be the one to tell Connor he’s sick instead of having him find out the hard way.

He just wants Connor back.

Closing his eyes, he waits for the end of the memory play out and sinks further into painful oblivion.

“I’m going out Hank. There’s….an emergency meeting at Jericho.”

Silence.

“Hank?”

More silence.

“There’s a premade lasagna in the freezer. I’ll finish the stir-fry tomorrow.”

A door opens, then closes, and a lock is clicked into place.

Then a door is opened in the present, and Hank forces his eyes open to plaster a composed façade onto himself. However, it soon changes into something much more curious.

Poking their head through the doorway is a little girl, one Hank’s fuzzy memory seems to recall meeting once but is unsure of where. The back of her brunette ponytail dangles across her shoulder as she takes in the area, clearly unsure of whether or not she is allowed to enter.

Hank stares at her, waiting for her to make the first move but she never does. He clears his throat and quickly rubs at his eyes. “You need help, kid?”

At first, he thinks his scraggly voice has scared her off, but a few seconds later the child steps completely into the room. The door shuts softly behind her as she shifts her weight around on the balls of her feet. She opens her mouth to speak but closes it shortly after.

“You, ah…lookin’ for something?”

She nods tentatively, fixed to her spot.

“…well, go ahead. I’m not gonna stop ya.”

The kid fiddles with the end of her shirt before rushing to the half-kitchen. As she throws open various cabinet doors, Hank closes out of the memory and searches for another one. None of the ones listed towards the top have log numbers similar to the previous one, leaving another missing piece in his puzzle. Hank cannot find it within him to say he’s surprised.

Another memory is selected at random, no conscious part of himself having the strength left to care what he sees. Hank’s been scraping the barrel this entire week and all he has to show for it are the splinters stuck in his skin.

There’s a rather loud _smack_ as the child proceeds to close each cabinet door with the brute force of a gorilla. She scampers off from the kitchen and dives into the vast ocean of couches, pushing apart the cushions of a particularly well-loved Lazyboy sofa. The drive behind her search is captivating, changing her from a fretful bunny into a scavenging lion. Hank wonders for a moment if he’s watching an entirely different child altogether.

“What’ya…looking for?”

The kid freezes, looking over to him with wide eyes. “M-My toy.”

Hank nods. “What does it look like?”

“It’s a fox.”

He nods again, their gazes locked by some sort of tractor beam. There’s something in the kid’s expression that sits uneasily with him, but she turns back to her search before he can pinpoint an exact name.

The newest memory is already playing when he turns his attention back to the tablet. He has no idea when it takes place or what log number it is, and at this point he wonders if it really matters. Connor’s gardening. When is Connor gardening? Does it fucking matter? What is Connor gardening? Why does Hank want to know the kind of seeds Connor’s planting more than the date of this memory? Why is he such a fucking screwup? Why can’t be have a coherent thought without cussing himself out?

In the corner of his eye, the child pulls a stuffed animal out from under the couch and cradles it close to her. She stands, turning to leave before Hank’s past voice stops her.

“Ya need anything? You’ve been out here for hours.”

If Hank weren’t so dazed, he would remember this as the day Connor decided to start a vegetable garden in the backyard. He would remember how he had insisted to Connor it couldn’t be done, that the soil in the backyard was as fertile as gravel, and how the android had proceeded to prove him wrong in the months to follow. He would remember the thoughtful care Connor would give to his plants, watering them every morning before work and in the afternoon once he came home.

The garden had become a part of their lives for a time, shortly after the last of winter’s snow had melted at the start of the year. Hank never thought anything good could ever grow in Detroit, but then again, he had once sworn his partner was nothing more than plastic and fancy wiring.

If Hank could, he would make a note to water the plants in Connor’s absence once he goes home.

“I’m alright,” Connor replies to him, the edge in his voice also going unnoticed by Hank’s fried brain. “The potatoes and radishes have been planted. I just need to finish with the tomatoes, zucchini…carrots…”

His partner trails off, absorbed in his work. Hank should make an effort to break the pregnant pause, to offer his help or ask him what’s so off about him, but instead he hears himself wander back into the house.

Idiot. He’s an idiot. A fool.

“Is that Connor?”

Hank looks up at the little girl. She’s taken a step closer to him, arms wrapped tightly around her stuffed fox. Her shell of hesitation appears to have cracked ever so slightly.

“Yeah, that’s Connor…how do ya know him?”

Another step, the fox’ legs dangle underneath his forearms. “He comes here sometimes. He’s nice, and funny. Not like before. How do _you_ know him?”

“Uh…I’m his partner,” Hank answers, the girl’s face suddenly standing out to him with much more clarity. “Have we met?”

The girl sways from side to side, eyes darting to the floor. “You were with him. Me and my mom were hiding, and Connor found us. He chased us, but we got away...”

That’s all it takes for Hank to connect the dots. “Oh…yeah. Yeah, I remember you. Shit sorry kid. Oh shit, don’t swear. Um…I’m sorry we chased you back then. That’s wasn’t, ah, cool.”

The kid takes yet another step. “It’s okay. I like Connor, and North says I’m allowed to swear as long as my mom isn’t around.”

“Good to know.” He sticks out his hand. “I’m Hank.”

She flinches at first, then slowly reaches out her hand as well. “My name is Alice. What are you doing?”

Hank calmly takes his hand back. “Just, ah…watching some videos with Connor in them. It’s for a case. We’re detectives.”

“I know.” Alice looks down at the tablet, her ponytail close enough to touch the wilder strands of Hank’s hair. “Why do you have to watch these?”

A parental urge Hank has not felt in years kicks into gear. “W-Well sweetie, Connor….C-Connor and I were trying to catch some bad guys and he…he got hurt. I’m watching these videos to try and figure out how I can fix him.”

Alice gives him a skeptical look. “Why aren’t any doctors fixing him?”

“T-they are…but there are some parts of Connor the doctors don’t know how to fix. That’s why I’m watching these to try and help them.”

She frowns. “Is Connor gonna be okay?”

There are two distinct paths Hank could choose, two buttons on a controller he could press his thumb against. He stares into Alice’s beady brown eyes and succumbs to the promise a lie would hold.

“Yeah, he’s gonna be fine, kiddo.”

Alice’s face falls. “He won’t though, will he?”

There’s a level of grace and distinction a child’s words carry, the kind one loses once they pass a certain age. It tears through every ounce of bullshit an adult can conjure, cutting straight to the point and leaving nothing off the table. Hank feels the effects of Alice’s words hit him like a train, the impact sending tremors through his very being. The last shred of a thread keeping him together snaps, and the storm confined to his tear ducts escapes its prison.

He bows his head down against his chest. The last thing he wants to do is upset this little girl who has already been though so much in her short life. She deserves the chance to embrace the lies told to her, not peer behind the curtain and have the magic exposed to her as the slight-of-hand it really is.

“I-I don’t know…I don’t know, sweetheart. I hope he will be but… _fuck._ ”

His hands fly to his eyes, abandoning the tablet and allowing it to fall to the floor. Darkness should appear behind his closed eyelids, but all he sees is a hospital bed with a small patient under its covers. He should be living in the present, working harder towards a tomorrow he needs to be there, but instead he’s trapped on October 11, 2035. He’s been trapped there for so long, and this case has only narrowed the breach allowing him back from the other side.

He had held Cole’s hand, looked at his son battered and bloody and dying, and told his unconscious form he would be okay.

He had held Connor’s hand, looked at his partner-his _son_ -battered and bloody and dying, and said nothing.

He wonders if the outcome will be any different this time around.

Something small and delicate lands on his shoulder, and Hank jumps at the contact. He sees Alice tense upon his reaction, but her hand stays rooted to his shoulder. Her fox hangs from the crook of her other arm, its black pupils just as empathetic as hers.

“It’ll be okay. Don’t cry.”

How incredible, how truly incredible it is she can change her tune to comfort him. Then again, maybe there is truth to be found in her words. As Alice stands beside him, waiting for his muffled sobs to quiet completely, Hank thinks of that day at the Chicken Feed once again. He reflects on the undeniable amount of joy he felt in that moment, how it had been the first time in half a decade he had let himself let go of his grief to celebrate a new beginning in his life. He reflects on all the thoughts he had about the future as he held Connor in his arms.

It occurs to Hank how blind he’s been. Since Connor was shot. Since Cole died. Blind not in the sense of ignorance, in not seizing every moment of every day with them while they were by his side.

Blind in not realizing how many moments he did.

Letting Connor move in with him, cleaning out Cole’s bedroom so the android could have his own space, all the hoops he jumped through to get Connor back on the force early, teaching Connor how to drive, the trips to Jericho to all the boring meetings he didn’t understand, watching Disney movies together on Sunday nights, walking Sumo together day after day-

He had been there. Not as much as he should have, but he was there. He was there after Connor deviated at the old Cyberlife tower, he was there before when the thought of becoming deviant terrified him to his core.

They are partners. Partners have each other’s backs. Just because Hank slipped up somewhere along the way gives him no excuse to turn tail and run now.

Alice lifts her hand from his shoulder and bends down to pick up the tablet he previously discarded. Hank takes it form her with shaking hands. Connor’s hands are still hard at work, coated in dirt and giving the rough soil hell. He hears the android grunt in frustration, whatever’s eating away at him seemingly still winning the battle of wills. His fingers struggle to open up a new seed packet, and he huffs in vexation, a tinge of grief mixed within it.

Then from off screen, Hank’s footsteps return and without a word, a glass of thirium is placed on the ground beside his partner.

Connor’s sight lifts from the broken dirt to Hank as he disappears back inside. The android looks to the full glass, grasps it with both hands, and takes a well-deserved sip.

The memory makes Hank feel lighter than he has in a long, long time. He looks to Alice with tears in his eyes and smiles.

“Thank you.”

Alice smiles back. The small curl of her lips shines brighter than the sun at its highest peak, yet Hank finds the strength to look back. She repositions her stuffed fox in her arms, turns towards the exit, and leaves without another word.

This again leaves Hank by himself. Alone. But he knows it doesn’t have to be that way. He knows it already isn’t. He stands up from his spot on the couch, his back popping multiple times in the process, and proceeds to follow the same path Alice did. Gavin isn’t one to fall asleep easily; surely the detective can stand to turn his car around and get him if the need arises. There’s a garden that needs tending to, and a saint Bernard that is in desperate need of some affection.

Hank is going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI I'm thinking of going back and rewriting some chapter titles, so just a heads up on that as well


	12. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer arrives. Winter still prevails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is only my seocnd day of school and i've already had to write an essay wowzer bowzer. I can't complain. I signed up for AP so this is what i gotta do and I love my teacher.
> 
> Here's an interlude I'm gonna yeet at yall while I try to keep up with my workload. I love each and every one of you kind people <33333
> 
> TW for drowning in this chapter stay safe

**D̷̡̢̥͈͈̲̺̩͈̣͚̙̙̰̺̈́̾͛ͥ̑̿̆ͦ͑͒͡ͅA̛͍̹͚̬̤͖̤͓̟͓̫̥̙̤̦̝͂̎͗ͫͯ͊̒̈̍͊͘͜T̊ͧ̍͌̈҉͏̤͇̱̠͇͎͕̩̥Eͫ̍̅ͥͭ͝͝͏̧̻̝̗̲̜͍͉͔͚͜:̥̝̟̯͙ͦ̋̓ͪ̔͛ͮ̾ͪ͜͢ ̴̡ͥ́͆͒̃͢͠҉̘̘͍̹̙͎͇͖̺̪͔̫͇̰U̷̶̡̙͚̼̞͚̤̜͖̪͚̫̜̲̣̒̓͆̆̊ͨ͗̍̓ͬͫ͒͆̅̀ͦͯ̂͂͞Ņ̷̸̶̩̪̟̞̥̱͉͙̩̹͉͕̣̦̫͍͔͌̓̈̔̅̃͊͑͌͗͗̓̌̀̾͊K̢͉̥̳͚̝̳͎͍̗̺̦͖̘̫̙̪̅́ͥ̽̀ͥͫ̑̀̔ͧ̌͛ͩ͝Ṇ̵̷̢͖̠͍̝͇͇̉ͨ̍̊̓͐ͬ̎̾̋̌͋͡ͅO̴̭͍̗̱̺͉̩̜̞͌̑̐̈́̀̅̓ͯ͂͛͘W̴͖̟̼̱̜̮̭͓͕̉̑̐̆̌̆͟͝N̵̡͇̝͈͉̝̞̦̗̖͕̺͙̺͉̽̓͌ͯ** ****  
̷̙̪̗̯͎̜͚̤̖͗̔̓̓̈̊ͣ̇̍͌ͨṬ̷̷̭̘͉̫̤̤̔̂͗ͧ̽ͦͥ̈́͐̒̾̂́͂̿͑͊̌͘I̷̴̭̳̘̭͙͙͎̮̰̠͌̄̐ͦ̊̔̾̃̀̇̌̓̆̈ͤ͒̚M̡ͪͥ̒̆̽̅ͯ̈ͨͪ̐̾ͩͬ̀̆̑͗̚̕҉̛̹̤̠͓E̗̘̱͈̮̘̪͕̤̼̠̿̅ͦͧͦ͗͋̍ͮͤ̅͘͡ͅ:̵̢̘̙̩̅ͮ̇̑̉̽̓̏̀ͯ̚ ̴̧͙̲̖̹̟̗̻̩͔͇̹͈̪͛̓͗ͦ͂̄͑ͪ̓͘̕͟U̷͑̅̌ͧ̂͑̈́̀͏̡̥̘̝͚̰̝͈̮̯͔͙̝̪̦͖̹̹̯͠N̵̖͙͙͈̣͙̫̤̺͒́̎̔̇͢K̴̯̣̹͖̇̇͊̉͆͂͊͑̿̑͊ͪ̕͢͞Ņ̦̭̭̦͚͈̯̬͚̤̑̓͂͆̍͘ͅO̡̘̠͇͌̍̇̂̅̇̑ͫW̨͔͚͇̝̲̝̞̰̹̘̳̣̪̲̑̓̆ͨ͋̈̓̓̿ͮ̓͂ͩ̓͝ͅN͗̿ͣ͗̐̒͏͏̠͙̖͙͎̻̻̗̠̙̥͉͙̠̞͙͉̝ͅ ****  
̴̷̷̡̥̺̣̅ͧ͛͆͆͝È̸͍͉̝͚̞̥̣̬̥͕̬̩̳ͨ̌͊͗̅̈̈̃ͬ͊͘͟ͅR̢̦̞͈̞̙͙̲̳͓͍̰̥͙̼͂̍̆́̐ͣ̄̃͛̒Ŗ̽̈̅ͦ͌̎̅ͫ͡͏̸̧̞͕͔̯̺͇͙̭̭͎͔̯̮̠̰̤̥Ô̷̶̷͍̝͈̼̘̭͉̞̩̟̟̘̺̼̙͚̻ͫ̂̎̕͜ͅR̲̠̺͔̳̠̠͚̩ͮ̎̑̓̐̿̋͂̈́ͬ͛̈́ͪ͐̓͌͜ͅ ̶̜͚̳̘͍̬̫̲̭̩ͪ̓ͪͪͣͦͪ̅ͤ̆͐̈́̈́̃̾̊̋͝E̛̜̲͎̞̞̝̝̤̳̟̬̦̤̞̤̮͓͂̏̾̂͗̎̾̑͋ͪ̏ͅR̶͕̻͎͔̹̲̘̺͈̘̲̆̎̒ͩ̎͂̋ͪ͞ͅR̺̱̰̰̜̘̫̘͈̐̈̅̄ͮͧ̿̎̅͊̕Ǫ̸̝̥̦̟̞̦̥̮̥̝̱̦̮̯̫̈́ͣ̊̇͐͐͛ͦ̅̂̾͢Ṟ̴̡͔̤̟̲͈̬̥̦̹̲͍̼̜̔̅̿̅ͣ͌̚͘͞ ****  
̲͇̣̳̜̺̯͎̺̣̻̪̳̟̤ͤͧͣ̌ͧͫ̊ͩ̅͛̌͜͠

Static.

Static and darkness.

Static and darkness and emptiness.

Static in his ears. Darkness instead of eyes. Emptiness where there should be fear.

But there is fear. Fear lashing out in the cover of the black ink all around him. Pulling at his joints, ripping out his wiring, tearing him apart bit my bit.

He feels it. Feels every tug and snap. Every yank and zap. Feels his mouth open despite no longer being attached to a body to operate. Feels his hands reach for a soul he doesn’t have as it is dragged away.

Screaming. He’s screaming. His voice is vibrating in his vocal chords-his vocal processor. Names are thrown into the void swallowing him whole, a hunger eating up every ounce of fear he leaks out along with his blood.

Hank Hank Hank Hank Chloe Chloe Chloe Chloe Hank Chloe Hank Chloe Hank Chloe static Hank Chloe Hank Chloe static Hank Chloe static Hank Chloe static Hank static Chloe static static Hank-

S̳̯͎̖̦̭̯t̖͙a͕͙̲̹ti͔͉c̮̞̖̗ͅ ͕͕̲s͓̮t͓̥a̯͓̤͓ṯ͎̠͓̙i͍͚͍̜͇ͅc̣͈̳̩̲̬ ̥͍͕̻͎s͕̖̞̗͚̪t̙̪̩̲͎a̗̮̰̦̹t͇i͙̯̣̞c̼ ̬͍͎̳s͙t̝a͎̪t̫͖̦̟i̘̙̝̺̳c̖ ̥̗͍̬͉s̳ta̩͚͖̯̣̪ti̝̞͔͕̰̭̟c̘̫ ̭̞s̘̘̝̻͕̘ͅt͍͍̬̦̟͕a͖t̬̙̘͈i̘c͙͙͈̭͖̦͓ ͔̭̟͈͉s͍̠̻͙̺̪̗t͕͔̣̬a͕͉̟͍̟t̖͈̜ị̼̱͉c ̘͙s͔̮͎̦̰ͅt̘̗̭̮͉̼a͔͎̹̭̦tic͖̙ ̜̲͖ͅs̖̹̞̙̪͇̳ta̻̼̝t͔i̟͍̣͙̟͍c̤̠̺͚ ̺̻s̪̪̘͎̳̫t̻̲̦̥at͚iͅc͔͈͖̱͈͉͙ ̲͇͙̱̰͚s̹̺͔̣t̬̜͎̥̲͍̞a̼̹̭̰̲͇t̰͍͉̯̫ic ̪̼͎̮̭̮̠s͙t͇̥a͈̭̹̤͉̤̥t͚̣̞͎̥̹ic̱̫̼̭͙̮̘ ̲͎s̗̮̲̣̬ț̫͉͖̗ͅa̤͈͉̼t͕̳͚̬̬͇i̼͈̖̤̪c̗ ͓͉̭͇st̜̦̱a̺t͕͉i͎̣̬c͖̜̫̤ ̱̗̫̯s̳͚̼͉͕͇̬t̼͓̱ḁ͚̘͉͓t͉̭̤̭i̯̦̼̟͍c͖̭͓͙̠ ͎̲̬̯s̫t̮̠at̟̲̹i̠̱̬̱c̯̦̰ ͚͉̹̣͔͕͔s͍̭̰̣̩͔ͅt͉͚͇̻̩̖̙a̠̩̰̣̻͕t̻̹͕̹̭̺i̙̹̮̪̱c̪̗ ̯̞͕͓s͙̘̤̳t͔a͎̜̠͇̣̤ti̙̟̫c s͈̥̦̠̬͎̭t̲a̝͖̙̬̦̟t̬̘̳i̲c͈̫͓̞̰̘ ̪̜s̜tat̩i̹͈̻̺c̙̱ ̳̳s̭͚̖t̜͖̥̬͇̰a͈̞ti̙͓̯c̼ ̹s̭̼̪͙ta͇̮͇ti͎͎c͉ s̝͈ͅt͉̩̠͍̖͖a̹̮̖̤̼t̮i͖̻̰̖̯̗̩c̦ ̦͉̰͚sṱ̪̮͓̦̻a͕̗̮̞̝͉̦t̫̖̪ic ̬̜͙̗s̻͍̗̗̮̹͖ta̖̤̼̯̮͇̯t̺̮̱͓͉̝ic͔̺̫̱̝͉͔ ̗͍ _s_ _̲_ _t_ _͉̙_ _̣_ _͈_ _a_ _̤̯_ _t_ _͖̦_ _i_ _̫_ _c_ _̲̦̳̥_ _̗_ _st_ _͇̩͕̪̺̬͍_ _a_ _̜̲ͅ_ _ti_ _͇_ _c_ _̫̩̙̖̜_ _̺͔̹_ _s_ _̥̻̗̖̹_ _t_ _͉̻̲̤_ _a_ _̠_ _t_ _̯͓_ _i_ _̱̙̗͍̗͍_ _c_ _̖͇̗̞_ _̗̖͙_ _ṣt_ _͇̬͓͙̘̪̹_ _a_ _̝̤̩̠_ _t_ _͙̙_ _i_ _͖̤͓̩̺͈̥_ _c_ _̮͎_ _͈̖̺͖̞͈_ _̣s_ _̖̠_ _t_ _̫͎͉_ _a_ _̫̪̼̳͈͍ͅ_ _t_ _̼_ _i_ _̺̻͈̭̮_ _c_ _̩_ _̺_ _̣_ _̜̩̬_ _̣st_ _̯̱̖̟_ _a_ _͖̲̬_ _̣_ _̱̯̮_ _t_ _̦̫̭͖͚ͅ_ _i_ _͓̬̳̙̝ͅ_ _c_ _̖̬̼̤_ _̖_ _s_ _̰̠͇̼̝_ _t_ _̲_ _̣_ _̠̬_ _̣_ _̤ͅ_ _a_ _̻̲_ _t_ _̳̘̖͎̳_ _i_ _̯_ _c_ _̤̝̖_ _̝͕̟̬̹_ _s_ _̩̮_ _t_ _̱̯̙̜͈̳_ _a_ _͓͔͕̝̹_ _t_ _̮̹͍͓̫_ _i_ _̜͙̜̫_ _c_ _̪ͅ_ _̬_ _s_ _͉̥̯̻̜_ _t_ _̠̲̗_ _a_ _͎̙̠_ _t_ _͚̰̬͔̱͇̼_ _i_ _̰̟̳̞_ _c_ _̮_ _̫̻̮̯_ _s_ _̝͍̫̗_ _t_ _̭_ _a_ _̲̘̯͉͍_ _ti_ _̦̲_ _c_ _̹̹̺̭͇_ _̳̭̰̳̝͈_ _-_ _͖̬_

Snow.

Lots of snow. Snow under his feet, snow all around him. So much snow. A world only composed of the white powder. All snow and only snow.

Panic.

Footsteps. He’s walking and he’s making footsteps. Now he’s running and making footsteps. No, he’s stumbling. He falls. He gets back up. He falls again. He crawls.

Shaves of ice harden underneath his fingers. His body offers no warmth to melt them. The world offers none in return. Parts of his body freeze up and stay frozen at the joints. He drags his lower half across the ground, wishing he could detach his dead weight. Wishing he could separate himself from this winter hell. Wishing he would have perished instead of facing whatever comes next.

He’s trying to get away. He’s trying to run. He can’t run but he will try.

Water meets his fingertips, the ungodly temperature taking Connor’s nonexistent breath away. He’s too frantic to think, too scared to bother with where he’s heading, and suddenly finds himself sinking below icy water. The shock completely immobilizes him, any and all of his freedom of movement stripped away from him in an instant. The pale light of the surface dims faster than Connor’s thoughts can process what’s happening.

The pond. He forgot about the pond. How could he ever forget a single detail of this damned garden?

His realization comes too little too late. Water seeps though his skin, his protective plating, until it lashes out at his inner workings. Where error reports should show in his eyes is nothing but the blurry cover of the deadly liquid. He can’t blink. He can’t swim.

He can only drown.

From the little cover of light the surface still provides, a silhouette appears to slice through and completely absorb him into darkness.

 

**July 1, 2040**

**3:45 AM EDT**

 

Snow dusts the peaks of the mountains surrounding a concrete mansion, the warmer summer months doing nothing to deter the winter’s prolonged hold on the area. The night’s sky holds a million stars, but from outside the building not a single light is to be seen. It is uninhabited, abandoned, and imposing to all who stand before it, but the same cannot be said for the inside.

Well, only the uninhabited part.

Wool slippers are the only barrier a pair of bare feet have to the hard tile below them. They shuffle across the length of a furnished living room of modern furniture and skin rug, pass a pool colored red, carrying their owner all the way to a door at the end of a long hallway.

A door is opened, a switch is flipped, and a lock is turned as the feet continue along their path.

Panel after panel of florescent panels come alive as a body walks below them, their arms crossed behind their back and hands locked firmly together. Equipment stands to attention on either side of them, flanking the pathway like soldiers ready for battle. Their numbers thin out as the body reaches the end of the room, their movements slowing as they reach a single operating table.

A monitor with a single, thick chord slinks down from its paneling and connects itself to the inside of an android’s skull. The android’s skin has since been deactivated, their face still and lifeless. The only sign of the pre-existing life it may have lived is the clothes dawning their torso. A sweatshirt with the DPD logo covers their chest and arms like an oversized blanket, while the jeans covering their legs are much tighter and crisp in color. Tennis shoes cling to their feet, laces tied as if expecting a chance to take off and run.

The monitor is fixed to a large screen. Statistics are displayed in a confusing array of lines and letters. Only an expert or a madman could decipher what it all means, and one is looking upon it in this very moment.

A sudden alarm goes off as a new reading emerges on the monitor. Lines that were previously straight spike up and down as if at the epicenter of an earthquake. Numbers that were previously in the single digits multiply exponentially. A world of calculations is screaming out as it burns in an absolute Armageddon.

Patches of skin speckle the android’s hand in spontaneous amounts, disappearing and reappearing at random.

The man standing before the monitor smiles.


	13. New Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morris works. Hank calls the shots. A beautiful partnership is formed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *walks into ao3* I have no memory of this place....
> 
> It's been two weeks but I'M BACK BINCHES (y'all aren't binches i'm just kidding) School has absolutely kicked my ass and I'm sorry this chapter couldn't come out earlier but hopefully you all still like it. It's more of a transitional chapter, so the real action is still to come.
> 
> Also 9000 hits????? I'm weeping???????? Seriously thank you all so much I don't deserve you <3

**July 1, 2040**

**12:13 AM EDT**

 

In Jericho’s designated emergency operating room is a single glass window, no bigger than 3 feet in diameter on either side. Consequently, the only streak of sunlight to pierce Detroit’s cloudy sky comes through said window and stabs at Morris’ eyes. She moves her chair back as she works at her desk but finds that her arms aren’t long enough to reach the keyboard. With a groan, she rolls forward with no choice now but to hunch forward and suffer through the backpain later.

Keeping track of where every line of code coming through Connor’s brain is like if she were trying to run after each individual horse in the Kentucky Derby. To put it simply, it’s nearly impossible to do on her own with her human limitations while her android assistants are out on break again.

Luckily, the hidden of power of sleep deprivation works in Morris’ favor as her body is worked into a frenzy. She opens, closes, and reopens tabs at the speed of light, reading lines of binary like a super computer. At this point, she wouldn’t be surprised if she was one. Her eyes are strained to the point she may need to change her prescription, and there’s enough caffeine in her system that Markus had to remove the coffee maker form her breakroom to keep her from overdosing.

Overall, it’s not the worst work week Morris has ever had.

Not when compared to the long, endless hours of wailing machinery. The trail of white limbs and panicked eyes that had to shuffle passed her. The constant humming of unscrewed bolts and clipped wiring. Frantic voices her ears barely caught snippets of but remember with perfect clarity. The thirium on her hands that was supposed to evaporate long ago that still drips from her fingertips-

She cuts off her brain, allowing herself one brief moment to collect herself before continuing. There will be time to fall down that rabbit hole later, when the life of another is no longer in her hands. When that time comes, she will allow herself to topple to the ground and slip as far as she possibly can.

Her past clings to her like an ugly scar, puffy and swollen and a revolting pinkish tint. She refuses to have it removed, or covered, or toned-down in any way. It would be an insult to those she took away, an afront to everything this world is working towards.

If she can save just one more android every day, maybe it will be enough to atone for what she’s done. If not, she’s not entirely sure she would want it to be in the first place.

She turns to Connor’s inert form before her moment is up, her eyes lingering on the exposed metal inside his skull and the thick blue streams pouring in and out of him. So much of it continues to flow, trapped in an indefinite loop. Its hideous current threatens to drag her away if she fails to decipher the upcoming firestorm that is a well-feared Amanda.

No, Morris does not lose patients. Not anymore.

She sprints back into her work, her previous speed increased tenfold. Data is sorted the second before it can even consider being lost, and memories are tracked and tagged accordingly by their dates. Statistics and progress reports are scanned over, sent to her assistants, and promptly forgotten about as new ones take their place.

The monitor before appears to glitch out from the sheer amount of information it’s taking in, but when it does truly act up Morris knows. A single blip of encrypted coding pops into her line of sight before diving beneath the waves of zeroes and ones. She dives in after it, the knuckle on her index finger throbbing from constant use as she clicks and scrolls and clicks and scrolls-

-Until finally, Morris catches up with the abnormality in a program so hidden she’s astounded she ever stumbled upon it. Compared to the pristine, straight-forward commands the RK800 series is known for computing in the span of milliseconds, this one is a sickly blemish that seems impossible to remove. As she explores deeper into its contents, she finds that its linked to every bit of Connor’s being. Every piece of data she’s already sorted, and the parts she is sure to sort in the near future, has a piece of the odd program connected to it like a parasite.

A terrible sensation churns in Morris’ gut, urging her to dive even deeper and solve the issue she thinks she’s discovered before it can rear its ugly head. With two simple clicks, she opens up the _ZenGarden_ program and sinks below the surface.

 

**July 1, 2040**

**12:34 AM EDT**

 

One would never guess by the purpose of Hank’s footsteps or the swing of his arms as he strolls across the Jericho parking lot his relationship with longevity would be in jeopardy. They would be more likely to assume the sleep-deprived Detective Reed trailing behind him is the one whose days are numbered, his morale much less present in his movements.

Yet, as the doors to Jericho part ways and Hank strides into the android threshold, those thought could not be more misguided. It may be a new month, with new promises and mindsets set every thought his mind conjures, but the pang of mortality weighs his efforts downward. Morally, he is a fortress; physically, his strenuous tendencies this week have taken their toll on his already weakened state.

That’s why he has a piping-hot cup, overpriced chocolate latte in hand.

Hank’s thought process at the time to purchasing said drink was that if the caffeine didn’t kick him into gear, the sugar sure would. Sure enough, barely two sips in, his heart is going into overdrive. The adrenaline coursing through his veins is astounding, and all it took was a brewed cup of beans. That, a good night’s rest, and an astounding amount of self-reflection.

It’s high time Hank finally dragged himself off his ass and got down to business. Starting it all off will to actually do his god damn job.

He snaps his fingers in front of Gavin’s face as his eyelids threaten to close. “Got that card Richard gave you?”

“ _Uggggggh_ , yeah-“

“Don’t give me your fucking sass. Pull out the damn card and give him a call.”

“I didn’t even sass you! Jesus, you sound like such a d-“

“You call me a dick and I’ll dump the rest of my latte on you.”

“I was gonna say dad but fucking fine. _Whatever_. I’ll call that asshat.”

“Don’t call him an asshat. You barely know the guy.”

“Oh my god, do you even _hear_ yourself right now?!”

Hank has already moved on, his mind elsewhere as the two men follow the familiar path to the elevator and ride its steel cables skywards. The trip grows tiresomely longer every time he takes it, but today it doesn’t seem long enough. A checklist has formed in his mind, its purpose filling him with a sense of duty that’s evaded him all week. Perhaps months, if he were to be honest. He thinks over it again and again as they rise floor after floor. There’s a hitch in his shoulders, a flare to his nostrils, and commands on the tip of his tongue.

It been a decade or so since he last felt his empowered, since he felt so _authoritative_. Back when he was just a young, upbeat cop with nothing to lose except the shiny record attached to his name. But with great power comes great responsibility or some shit, and Hank is quaking at the knees over what shit will get in his way.

No. New day, new month, new perspective.

The elevator dings, and as the ringing diminishes Hank rises into the roll he fell short of acquiring. A captain.

Markus, Simon, and a few other androids whose names escape Hank are all waiting outside the operating room as he requested. They look to his direction as he makes his way briskly down the hall (Gavin not-so-quite on his heels behind him). Once Hank is in a respectable distance, he takes a deep breath and ignores the shrill sound it creates.

The revolutionary leader steps forward. “You said you needed us to do something?”

“I need those guards back on duty outside the door. Fully-armed, at the ready.”

His voice is low, and yet booms like the call of a siren. An intimidating siren, for sure. He points a shaky finger at Markus.

“Get me a whiteboard, some markers, or just pen and paper if that’s all you have. I need all those supplies in the rec room and I need that room designated as our own space. Make a sign that tells everyone to go Netflix-and-Chill or whatever somewhere else. Get me as many of those tablet-things that you can carry.”

Tablet-things. God. He represses the urge to smack himself in the forehead, instead using his pent-up annoyance to gesture to the crowd before him.

“I need names of every android who knows Connor, whether they’re in this building or not. Tell them to stay close to Jericho for a few days; we gotta lot of interviews to do. See if the doctor can bind Connor on the operating table until we know what Amanda’s capable of-“ His stomach lurches at the thought, but he swallows it back down. “-we can’t take any chances with so many people around. Markus, you make sure you’re not close to Connor at any given time.”

Markus gaze narrows at the command. “What do you mean?”

“You’re the leader of the revolution, and every time I turn on the damn news your face is plastered across the screen. If Amanda _does_ come back, I don’t think it’s a stretch to say she’s coming for you buddy.”

Simon puts a hand on his husband’s shoulder. “It’s just a precaution. We should give Karen and her team a warning too, I assume?”

“Karen?” Hank asks.

“Dr. Morris.”

“Right, Yeah, do that….Wait, actually-”

Shit, he’s known this lady has been five feet from a cold-blooded program all week and it hasn’t once occurred to him he should have maybe asked if they could move her to a safer location? Where has Hank been?

Well, drowning in his sorrows with the absence of alcohol replaced with a pulsing concussion but _still_.

“Which is easier to move? The doc’s equipment or Connor?”

The woman who was mere moments from decking Richard yesterday crosses her arms. _North_ , Hank’s brain supplies without warning. “Have to ask her, but I don’t think anything in that room is mobile right now. I can assign a heavier security force inside, stick around myself if I need to.”

“Do what you gotta do to make sure everyone in that room is ready for what’s to come. I want an evacuation of the floors above us, can you all make that happen?”

“’Course we can.”

The taller man- _Josh_ -standing behind her clears his throat. “Uh, Mr. Anderson?”

Hank waves the hand not currently nursing his latte. “Hank, please.”

“Right. Hank. I’m not sure if it’s such a good idea to ask everyone to evacuate without knowing what’s going on. And anything major we do here is reported nationally. Is this news that we want to spread?”

Hank bites his lower lip. How Fowler can solve so many unexpected puzzles every waking day is beyond him. “Make sure it doesn’t spread. Lie and tell people it’s an electrical problem or some shit. Flick some light switches. Turn yourself into fucking actors and convince people to move. The last thing we need is a whole building of panicked people.”

“People already know Connor’s here, though,” Josh is quick to point out. “What if they realize every upper floor but the one he’s on is being abandoned?”

“Just tell them what you told me. Too hard to move him out. Pull some generators up here and make it look convincing. Besides, who’s really gonna be that nosy?”

Now that this has occurred to him, however, Hank can’t put the possibility out to pasture. There is a determinate amount of people currently living in this building as well as an indeterminate entering and leaving it as they please. The list of bodies Hank has to keep in mind is longer than his wrap sheet at the station, and with each and every one of them is a pair of prying eyes. How easy the chess pieces he’s lined up could fall, rolling off the table and shattering against the cold floor below.

No. New day, new month, new perspective.

“I want those floors cleared before the day’s over. I know it’ll be a tough transition, but we’ll figure shit out as we go if we need to.”

Oh yes, because all the great leaders of the past figured shit out as they go.

A timid voice from yesterday breaks through today, berating him for straying from his goal. What if he’s right? He’s not a great leader from the past; he’s not even sure of he qualifies for a decent speaker for this group of clearly-capable androids. They led a successful revolution after all. _However_ , he is an officer of the law, one who was trained to think on their feet and work best under intense odds. He sees a simmering plot when it’s brewing and right now every one of them is swirling in a boiling cauldron.

The scale may be tipped completely opposite of his favor, but he’ll stand on his side for as long as it takes for the balance to shift. And if that means taking charge and ordering the weight to stand with him.

New day, new month, new perspective.

“I’ve got no authority to be ordering you all around, and you know that. But I swear to God I know what I’m doing, and I can do it well. All I’ve been doing is moping around the place like an asshole-ah! Don’t give me that sympathy crap!” he snaps as Markus opens his mouth. The leader shuts it soon after his warning, to his own surprise one could gage by his expression. “But shit’s gotta change if we really wanna save Connor. _Please_ , will you listen to me?”

The androids before Hank stare at him for a long, silent moment before shaking their heads with an eagerness that shakes him to his core.

“Whatever you need, Hank, we’ll do it,” Markus promises.

If that doesn’t bring near tears to the old man’s eyes. He embraces the relief like a warm embrace and turns to the only member of their party he has yet to address. “Gavin.”

“What?”

“You called Richard yet?”

“Yeah. In the elevator. You didn’t hear me?”

“He on his way?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Good. I’m gonna need you two to work together and do some recon for me.”

That wakes the detective up immediately. “ _Huh?_ ”

Hank recognizes his tone and readies himself for the temper tantrum sure to follow. “It’s still my case, but since you’ve taken it over you’re the one who’s gonna have to work with the guy. Find out what he knows, and once we learn more about Chloe’s whereabouts I’ll be sending you two out to investigate.”

Seemingly amused, Gavin huffs out a laugh. Then he pales, a dose of reality hitting him like the caffeine in Hank’s gut. “Oh, you were serious.”

Hank pats the man’s shoulder. “Chin up, bucko. I’m sure you too will get along. And if you don’t, that’s your problem.” Gavin sputters angrily as he pulls his hand away. “I owe you one regardless.”

He points a shaky finger right in Hank’s face. “ _Two_. You owe me _two!”_

“Sure, yeah, two favors. Thanks for keeping track.”

It occurs to Hank as a stifling silence falls over the hall that five pairs of eyes are awaiting further instruction. With a wide stance and set shoulders, he nods before them.

“Let’s get a move on.”

 

**July 1, 2040**

**12:59 AM EDT**

 

It’s too damn muggy outside for Gavin’s liking, the humidity turning his hair sticky and his jacket into a constricting tar-woven garment. It’s also too damn suffocating to be inside the building, with so many android bodies moving around from one place to another and generating an absurd amount of body heat.

This leaves the detective little option but to pace outside with his arms and suffer in agony as he awaits the arrival of his new favorite asshole.

What little luck remains on his side throws him a bone and graces Richard with a quick walking pace. The android is crossing the parking lot of Jericho, white suit jacket just as pristine and imposing as ever, with a near skip in his step as he grows closer. How badly Gavin would love to wipe it off with a swift swing of his fist or flick of a particular finger.

Instead, he plays the friendly partner he knows Hank wants him to be. Or at the very least, the irritable soul who just happens to be at the wrong place at the wrong time whenever the lieutenant needs him.

Richard’s smile only grows as he comes to a steady halt before him. “I’m happy to see you’re willing to cooperate with me, Detective Reed. Though if I may say, you don’t look prepared for our little rendezvous.”

“Fuck off, I had my morning coffee,” Gavin snarls. “Be grateful I even called you in the first place.”

“Well, judging by the tone you used during our call, it seems as if maybe it wasn’t your idea in the first place.”

Oh, if Gavin could grow two feet taller only to look down upon this motherfucker right now. “No matter whose idea it was,” he says though grit teeth, “I’m still gonna need you to cooperate with me too. You got info, I got info, and we’re about to get more. “

Sparks dance in Richard’s eyes, his lips parting to form a near circle. The smug expression sitting across his face has since stood up and left. “Oh?” The slight window of optimism this gives Gavin catches him off guard. “Then let us start our discussion right away. Where will we be meeting?”

 Gavin points a thumb vaguely at one of upper floors of the building. “Got a room already set up for us. Gonna have to push through a bit of a crowd to get there, so try not to get lost.”

A mischievous grin soon overtakes the android. “I am more than capable of keeping up with you, detective,” Richard says with a voice like silk. “I have to say I’m looking forward to our partnership. It’s bound to be a unique and challenging experience. And I for one love challenges.”

Gavin knows deep within himself the rest of this week is going to be absolute hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was hank telling the others to do stuff actually me yelling at myself for not thinking about how insufficient i made jericho's security system? yes


	14. Familiar Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard spills the beans. Simon does some hand-holding. Connor goes for a walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still trucking along and i got a hot and fresh one for yall. It's a long one and I'm positing late-ish where I am so plan accordingly buds
> 
> Quick side bar: the adventure time finale has destroyed me and i barely had any idea what was going on the entire time 10/10
> 
> WARNINGS: there's a near panic attack and a near-suicide attempt close to the end of the chapter. Read with caution and stay safe

**July 1, 2040**

**2:34 PM EDT**

 

Here’s what Hank and Gavin give Richard: Some background on the red ice case that landed Connor in his temporary purgatory, full access to the memory logs that have already been viewed and deemed appropriate for use (anything too private is listed for the android investigator to avoid), and their personal phone numbers. He also receives a stern talking to by Hank that if he in any way jeopardizes Connor’s safety by uprooting anything without reporting it that the lieutenant will personally kick his ass.

It’s clear Richard has to repress the urge to smirk at that, but nevertheless the investigator swears to turn over all his information.

Which he does in full.

Tapings of congressional meeting from the past six months Connor was in attendance for, detailed tracking of Connor’s after-work activities, dozens of newspaper articles about any and all DPD cases involving the android detective. It’s the basic safety net any private investigator would have to work with but mixed into the bland fodder are expertly-seasoned listings of every program Connor possesses. By expertly-seasoned, that’s to say Richard has a full synopsis of how Connor’s body should and _would_ work on any normal day. Along with that, he also has the supposed-to-be private phone records of Hank’s partner written out for him like a Christmas list.

Essentially, Richard gives them more than any private detective should ever be able to and that’s the first red flag Hank sees here.

The second comes from the vague information the investigator supplies about his employer. For as much dirt Richard has on Connor, he has zilch on the Wizard of OZ he seems to be in contact with. No scratch that, because apparently, they’re not even doing _that_.

“The guy paying you literally told you to call him John Doe and that didn’t sound a wee bit fucking suspicious to you at _all?_ ” The gears in Gavin’s head must be churning because Hank swears he can hear their nuts and bolts turning at full speed. There appears to be a fair amount of smoke pouring out of his ears as well, but that’s more due to the fact that the detective can’t stand to be in the same room as the Connor-doppelganger. Hank can’t deny he’s in the same boat but the life preserver they’re sharing is offering them different promises if they stay afloat.

“Many of my clients prefer to contact me under a pseudonym,” Richard informs him nonchalantly. “All I ask is for enough real information about them to know I’m not being fooled. A verified phone number or email is enough depending on the case, but others I require a little more for.”

“What kinda cases do you even handle?”

Richard holds up a finger for each case he recalls. “Keeping tabs on cheating spouses, catching kids skipping school, a missing persons case now and then. Mostly cold cases loved ones refuse to let go of, or cases where people ran away for a reason. For those, I tend to…not lie per say to my employers, but…bend the truth a little when reporting back.”

“You callin’ yourself a dirty investigator?” Hank asks.

“If you consider letting eloped couples stay happily married away from their less-than-savory families dirty, then call me whatever you want. My point upon bringing it us is that I don’t start every case siding with the person handing me money; in fact, I hardly ever end up in their moral court by the end. The less I know about them, the better for all of us. My job isn’t to make friends, or have my views skewed by personal matters. But sometimes it’s unavoidable.”

The three of them are sitting around a small, wooden table. Hank and Gavin on one side, a straight-back Richard on the other. With themselves as exceptions, no one is present to fill in whatever little space is still available in the tiny office room. However, as Hank leans into the android’s face he feels the walls closing in on him.

“Listen, we need to know who this fucker is,” he speaks low and evenly. “You got a number?”

Richard’s pale blue eyes send chills up his spine. “Of course.”

“Then give ‘em a call.”

“I can’t do that.”

Hank takes a deep breath to calm the fire churning in his gut. “And why the hell not?”

“My employer gave me exact instructions on how to go about this case. If I want to be paid, I have to follow them through in full.”

A third red flag is hoisted to the top of the pole wobbling in the winds of Hank’s mind. He pulls a notepad out of his pocket and shoves it into Gavin’s hands.  “What are all the rules you have to follow?”

The investigator eyes Gavin down until he puts pen to paper. He smirks at the detective and the heat radiating off the man singes Hank’s sleeve. “No calls, no rendezvous, and no probing Connor’s memory to find information. He only asks that I find out who your partner has had contact with in the past six months and report back to him by this coming Friday, no questions asked.”

A simple job with a suspicious time limit. The corners of Hank’s lips dig downwards into his cheeks. “And how much you gettin’ paid for all this?”

“Two million dollars.”

The cops at the table with average monthly pay have near aneurisms.

“No, fuck you,” Gavin shakes his head. “That ain’t true.”

“I can assure you it is.”

“No, still fuck you? Like, what the actual hell?!”

Richard frowns. Hank takes the wheel of this speeding vehicle before they completely gun it off the overpass. “How do you know this money is legit?”

“Every one of my clients has to sign a lengthy contract before I even look at their case. The agreements listed require them to pay me in full, even if they don’t enjoy the results I dig up.”

“And if they don’t?” Gavin asks.

Richard smirks. “Then I’ll give them hell in court.”

“Doesn’t matter how much he’s paying you, bud,” Hank butts in. He places his elbows on the table and weaves his hands into a tight grasp. “You understand the situation we’re dealing with right now? This is a police investigation. A drug bust turned attempted murder, and to muddy the waters even more we’ve got a missing person’s case on our hands too. You don’t have to hand the number over to us, but I _promise you_ I will give you hell if you don’t. You got contracts? I’ve got warrants.”

The LED on Richard’s temple blips yellow for the smallest of seconds, but Hank latches onto it with steel talons. Only thirty minutes or so has passed since they all sat down and started their little show-and-tell, but already he feels as if he knows more about this android than he would like to admit. Smug attitude, cold exterior, but clear signs of a more naïve nature by the subtle cracks in his facial expressions. It’s no wink or rebuttal against any slight mention of deviancy, but Hank can read Richard like an open book. All because he’s read the book on his own partner, and before discovering any juicy chapters about a secret-double life, he had to read the forward on Connor’s many traits.

In short, Richard agrees to turn over the phone number to Hank. He doesn’t have it written on paper, given his eidetic memory and all, but he forwards it to the cops via their cellular devices. Hank feels the metal casing rattle against his hipbone and ignores it, while Gavin pulls his out immediately. “This doesn’t mean you get to send me your weird slicked-back hair selfies, got that-?”

“I only ask that you don’t call right away,” Richard cuts him off, almost frantically. Another blip of yellow in flashes in his LED, but this time he catches Hank’s gaze. “If you think my top priority is the money, it’s not. My employer may cut off communications with me entirely if I call too soon.”

“So we could spook them-“ Hank tries to finish.

“And you’d lose everything,” Richard says for him. There’s an unsettling hitch in his voice that makes Hank’s heart ache and hearing it as Connor doesn’t soften the blow. As high and mighty as this kid may see himself (and a kid he truly is), there’s a genuine part of him that wants to see this case solved to the end. It’s evident in his persistence and the overall aurora he’s giving off, but maybe Hank’s biased. He’s too close to this case and he knows it, but why not trust his gut when there’s already so much working against him? Any lead is a solid one at this point.

“Alright, we’ll sit on it then,” Hank nods. He swears he sees Richard’s shoulders slacken at the response. “Is this everything you’ve got.”

“Yes.”

“Sure about that?”

Richard scowls, but it comes off more as a pout Hank’s seen over a million times. “Yes, I am sure.”

Instead of pressing in harder to the truth, he can’t help but smirk. “Good. Welcome to the team, Richard.”

 

**July 1, 2040**

**3:46 PM EDT**

 

 

As commanded, armed guards stand the ready inside and outside the operating room. Their heavy gear glistens underneath the florescent light above but not as much as their shiny rifles, which hang heavy and imposing in their hands.

Simon has his eyes trained at the barrel of the one just a few feet in front of him, the optional ability to scan the make and model at the ready as a pop-up in his vision. He dismisses it quickly, as the statistics of how lethal such a weapon would be are unneeded. All it takes to know is a simple glance.

Over a year has passed sine he last needed to fret over being in such close proximity to a deadly tool, and yet today here he stands frozen to the floor. There is no imminent danger, or table in dire need to be cowered behind. Yet the slow, mounting waves of what he fears is to come parallels his days spent wandering the decks of their previous base. Only now instead of the groans of rusted metal, there’s the faint whistle of the ventilation system above.

The guard before him meets his gaze, confusion in their eyes. If they have an LED attached to their temple, it has been covered by a helmet thicker than the metal making up Simon’s joints. “Are you alright, sir?”

Simon feels himself jolt. “Oh. Yes, I’m fine. H-How are you?”

“Good…?”

“Good. Good good good. Well, I’m just…going to make my leave them. Keep up the good work of…standing and…yep.”

He retreats down the hall, passing a hive of bees and a coil dragon who enjoy their simple bliss of permanent fixation.  How wonderful it would be to be a part of something sturdy, to never have to worry about the painted scenery around him changing.

Except Simon isn’t made of oils and dyes. His body is made of rushing thirium and stimulated wiring, all of which would be broken and taken apart by brute force in the blink of an eye. How easy it would be for this colorful display around him to suddenly become a never-ending darkness, for blue blood to stain these carpeted floors underneath his heels.

His blood isn’t the one he fears will be spilt, however, which only pushes him to go faster. He bursts into the rec room a bit louder than indented, the wooden doors smacking into the drywall with a boisterous _thud_. A rush of apologies and true intentions fly to the tip of his tongue, but he silenced by the scene before him.

Sitting on a semicircle of couches is a viewing party, Markus standing off to the side with their friends while Hank and his crew are fixed to the cushions. The lieutenant’s eyes are full to bursting with tears, a sight that has become common these past few days. Meanwhile, the Connor double beside him is as blank as one of Markus’ untouched canvases, the detective to Hank’s other side just as much so. However, as Simon grows closer, he notices a slight quiver in his brow that creases all the way to the scar on his nose.

 It isn’t until Simon is mere feet away from his husband does the whistling in his ears cease and Chloe’s voice replaces it. He jerks suddenly to the flat screen to his backside, her tearful blue eyes and tangles of blonde hair striking him off guard. She’s mere inches away from Connor’s gaze, face flushed a pale blue with streaks of tears her hands reach up to swipe away. Sudden waves of guilt and embarrassment slam into Simon as he watches this intimate moment, aware of how rudely he just so happened to slice through it.

He opens his mouth to apologize, but Markus grabs his hand before he can get a word out. Skin peels back to reveal white silicon bones and a connection is made.

 _Are you alright?_ Markus’ voice wafts in his head like a heavenly melody. There is an urgency in his tone, the events of this week no doubt spooking him just as much as it has others. It’s a side to the leader he refuses to let others see, but Simon has the key to the door backstage that gives him access to his husband’s inner workings.

_I’m alright. Just…Sorry about bursting in like that._

_Don’t be. Tell me what’s wrong._

They’ve always been able to peer behind the other’s deck of cards in their relationship, and today seems like no exception. Simon sighs delicately, taking mind not to disrupt the scene before him again.

_It can wait. Any new leads?_

_It doesn’t have to,_ Markus reminds him. There’s a pause. _Nothing new yet. Hank prefers to watch the memories one by one._

Simon suppresses a chuckle. _And you’d like to scan through them._

_It would be much faster is all I’m saying._

_Let the man have an hour or so to watch,_ Simon urges kindly. _He may have rebounded since yesterday, but I can’t imagine what’s going on inside his mind. We’ll step in and scan the logs ourselves if we need to._

A scowl crosses over Markus’ face. _I think Richard’s been given full access to them as well._

Simon feels himself share the expression. _Has he._

_Hank was too quick to trust him. I don’t think he’s telling us everything._

_It’s not like he had much of a choice. Connor only has so much time. Besides, North has security keeping an eye on him too._

Markus tightens his hold on Simon’s hand. He doesn’t say anything (or think anything, more accurately), but Simon can read his thoughts without even a glance.

 _Let’s give him a fair shake,_ Simon adds. _And when he does slip up, we’ll be ready._

A rather ear-splitting sob breaks their thoughts, severing their connection as they are dragged back to the present. Chloe has a hand to her mouth, her eyes squeezed shut, body convulsing with muffled cries, and artificial tears raining down her cheeks.  She looks impossibly more distraught than she was mere seconds ago, and the empathy in Simon’s soul is dying from the barrier between them. He takes comfort in the arm Connor wraps around her shoulders and the shift in his gaze ever-so-slightly away from her.

How many times it was him offering those embraces, wandering the ships for those who weren’t in the haul, trying to coax those who wanted to sink into a lonely oblivion back to the main group. His program embedded him with the duty to provide, and even after deviating he can’t help but reach out a helping hand wherever it seems needed. Then an angel fell from the heavens above and suddenly Simon wasn’t the one keeping the unity in the world anymore.

Still, as Chloe cries for reasons currently unknown to him, he grabs Markus’ hand again and has a confession ripped out of him.

_I’m worried about you._

Markus looks to him, but the blond does not meet his gaze. _Why? I’m protected. We’re armed and ready for…for whatever happens next. I’ll be fine._

_I just…this is such déjà vu._

_What is?_

_The…well, the guns and the hiding and and-_

_And I’m going to be fine._ Markus shuffles closer and leans his head onto Simon’s, thick hair ruffling against a clean-cut scalp. _I’m staying clear of Connor, no matter how wrong it feels. You…_

_Me…what?_

_You stay away too, okay?_

Simon nearly scoffs at the thought. _No evil program is going to want anything to do with me._

_You say that like you’re not important. And you are very much so. I-Important, that is. We don’t know what Amanda can do, or what she knows. Just…be careful, please._

Chloe shakes her head side to side, her hair swaying in a violent breeze, Connor’s vision shifts fully back to her and Simon takes the opportunity to lift up their clasped hands before his gaze comes to a complete halt. He presses his lips to Markus’ knuckles in replace of any verbal response as to keep his attention on the memory playing out before them.

“I just don’t _get it_ ,” Chloe hisses through clenched teeth. “W-Why can’t I just…it’s just…fucking _hair_.”

“Sometimes it’s not just fucking hair,” Connor reminds her softly. There’s an intimacy to his voice that Simon knows all too well, and yet hearing it through his friend’s voice makes him feel almost foreign to it. It’s also odd to say the word ‘fucking’ with such tender passion and not in a sexual manner.

Chloe sits up with a start, her curtain of locks parting from her face. “But it is! Like i-it shouldn’t matter as much as it does, but I just can’t…I still can’t put it up. But I should at least try to, because if it gets me fucking fired again then it’s-I can’t keep doing this.”

Connor reaches a calm hand up to her face and brushes away a cascading tear. Chloe leans into his touch, her face scrunching up in pent-up frustration. She shakes with another silent sob.

“Don’t let money force you to do anything you don’t want to,” he nearly whispers. “Let me help-“

Suddenly, Chloe reels from his touch. She rises from the couch beneath her with sudden fury. “ _No_.”

Connor blinks rapidly. “Chloe-?”

“I can provide for myself. I don’t need help. This is just a stupid issue, and I’m being stupid about it, and I can fix it right now. _Look_.”

She balls up fistfuls of hair in her shaking fists and nearly rips it out of her skull as she pulls it behind her face. One hand holds a messy ball of blonde tangles as the other reaches into her pocket and whips out a single black hair tie.

“Look. It’s the same one she gave me. See, I can do it. Fuck her.”

“ _Chloe-_ “ Connor stresses, suddenly fretful, but she’s already tugging at the elastic to bend to her every whim. The band makes it around once, twice, before her hand fumbles to maintain its hold. Chloe grits her teeth, uttering a million curses underneath her breath as fresh tears well up in the corners of her eyes. She yanks desperately to form one last loop, again and again and again, before the tie breaks with a deafening _snap_.

They stare at the broken hair tie, both of them stilled into silence, before Chloe breaks too. With a strangled cry, she throws the useless band to the carpet below and proceeds to stomp on it over and over ang over again. She’s close to releasing a full-fledged scream, if not for the little restraint she still has left. Connor jumps up from the couch and moves to approach her, his hands grasping at the air with trembling fingers.

“Chloe, your stress levels-!“

“Oh, _fuck OFF!_ ” she finally roars, a gruesome snarl revealing her gnashed canines. The fire in her eyes pieces right through Connor’s gaze and straight into Simon. He’s seen her fury before, just never from her. Normally, it would come from North whenever her demons decided to return from the depts of hell to continue with their torment. They’d enrage her, causing her to lash out at Josh as an easy target, with Simon ending up caught in the middle of it all.

Time has taught him that the anger behind a blaze so strong is made from the timber of suffering, not of blind compulsion. As Chloe continues with her barrage of vexation, he latches on to every waver of her voice and quiver of her lips. He senses the tsunami of anguish before it strikes, and frowns in sympathy as her words give out and sobs take their place.

It’s also clear to Simon how lost Connor is, how his arms hover by Chloe’s shoulders but question whether or not to make contact. However, he soon comes to his senses and wraps his girlfriend up in a soothing embrace. His head comes to rest on top of hers, making Chloe nothing more than an offstage performer.

He doesn’t shush her or offer any comforting words. Instead, he stares at the wall with a gaze so fixed one would think the log froze if not for the audio. This is where Simon would break out of his shell and utter any words he could, perhaps a “there, there” or a “it’s fine.” This is where Simon would catch North hiding in one of the other decks and ask if she wanted company or would assure Josh that the words she unleashed weren’t really meant for him.

But not Connor. Connor simply stares.

Until, finally, he utters, “Breathe.” He sounds so unsure of himself, so small, but the rasping breath Chloe takes finally closes his eyelids.

They stand there for many long minutes before Connor speaks again. “You don’t have to prove a point either. That lady doesn’t order you around anymore. You don’t have to push yourself for her sake.”

“It’s too tight…too tight…”

Simon isn’t sure how Connor heard Chloe’s muffled words, or even how he heard them, but the log pans down to look at the top of her head.

“I could feel it pulling at my scalp, even though I sh-shouldn’t ‘ve. A-And there was nothing to cover anything. My face. My shoulder. He could see everything…”

Connor inhales sharply. “Did he-?”

“No. N-No, he didn’t. I promise. But…he didn’t need to. He didn’t need to…” her voice dies off as a shrilled whimper and Connor’s gaze returns to the wall. She composes herself many moments later, just enough to finish her confession. “I was his first creation. I was the one w-who caused everything…and he’d cart me around like some prize to be won. Treat me like I was nothing but a shiny trophy. Dress me up like a pretty doll. Talk to me like my only use was to offer him entertainment. I-I used to think I was there to offer him company, that after everything he’d revealed to me about himself he truly did think I was alive. Then he handed you that gun and I knew-I _knew_ he’d only been toying with me. I was never alive to him…even when I deviated…he tried to get me to stay by saying how scary the world was. How I’d never survive a day out there by myself.”

A pregnant pause follows those words.

“He’s still controlling me…he’s in my head, telling me I’m not good enough to make it on my own. Telling me to dress up nicer, listen to my boss, stop getting hair in all the food…I’m not helpless. I’m not a toy. I’m…I’m _stronger_ than that…“

Connor closes his eyes. “One of the strongest I know. People, that is.”

“And…hair in people’s food isn’t good, I guess…” she rationalizes, her words almost inaudible through her tears. “But…god I just-and e-every day she’d…and I’m not-“ Her words are drowned out as the last sliver of her composure faulters. Connor opens his eyes and pushes her back gently by her shoulders. Somehow, her face is even more flushed than before, strands of hair glued to her face by tear streaks. Once again, he attempts to wipe her face with the pads of his thumbs, but nothing can stop the flow of her sorrow. He sighs saintly.

“I…I can’t say I know how you feel, but…I _do_. But not like you…” He sighs more heavily this time. “There’s…there’s this program inside of me. My old handler. Amanda. She…she was always giving me orders, threatening my deactivation if I didn’t carry out Cyberlife’s order. When I deviated, she tries to take full control of me and…I’d never felt so…so…”

“Helpless.”

Connor blinks. “ _Yes_.”

Chloe sniffs, regardless if she needs to. “How’d you stop her? How did you get rid of her?”

“…I didn’t. She’s still inside me; I was just lucky and found an exit program. I’ll never get rid of Amanda….she’s a part of me.”

There’s a twinge of sadness to his own voice, alluding to his own deep-rooted trauma, but he refuses to let his branches overshadow her.

“And he’s a part of you…too. Not like Amanda, but he’s…this isn’t helping. Let me start over-“

“No,” Chloe rasps, her voice shredded to a terrible state. “You _are_ helping. I-I understand.”

“You do?”

“I do…sorry for telling you to fuck off.”

Connor chuckles weakly. “I know you weren’t talking to me.” He tries once more to brush some of her tears away, this time making some leeway. “Maybe you should take a break from working.”

Now Chloe laughs. “I already got fired, Conny. Got that one covered.”

“No, I mean maybe…maybe you should take some time for yourself. There was a time after the revolution I couldn’t return to the DPD and really do… _anything_. But I spent most of that time just…thinking, reflecting. After everything that happened, it was pretty well needed.”

Half a smirk stretches across Chloe’s face. “I bet. Yeah…a break would be nice, but y’know… _money_?”

“I could pitch in,” Connor suggests.

“No, Conny, I couldn’t-“

“Chloe, please. I want to help. Let me take that stress away from you. Let me give you this bre-“

The log freezes without warning, leaving Chloe’s compassionate gaze firmly fixed to the screen. Simon feels the memory’s trance lose its hold on him, his limbs suddenly growing looser at his sides. He looks to Markus, who looks at him, and neither has an inkling of an idea what to say after what they’ve witnessed.

Luckily, Hank does. “Bank accounts,” the lieutenant stammers at Gavin. “Check Connor’s bank account. See if you can find a link to Chloe’s and track her expenses from the past half year, if there’s anything. Check debit cards, credit cards, everything. If she so much as spent a penny since January, you tell me.”

Gavin has barely stirred from the couch since Hank has addressed him. What little body language he gives almost seems jumpy, but he manages a nod to his superior. It’s more of a response than Richard manages to give, which is none whatsoever. The investigator is completely stone-faced, the only indication of his thoughts the shifting of his LED from yellow to red.

Hank rubs at his face quickly, pulling himself back together in a matter of seconds before his picks up his tablet and opens a new memory log. “Get to it then. Time’s a ticking.”

The two reluctant partners rise from the couch, their movements equally stiff and disjointed as they rush out of the room. Simon watches until the doors swing shut behind them and turns back to the memory. It’s late at night, and for ra9-knows-what Connor is walking down a sidewalk with only the moon and the stars to illuminate his path. He begs to have seen the date of the log beforehand, or at least to be given some context to help him fill in the gaps.

 _Same night,_ Markus informs him. The man truly is a mind reader. Connor must be walking back from Chloe’s, perhaps on his way to hail a cab somewhere in the more populated part of town. He is alone, with the natural sounds of the city to provide him with ample white noise. There’s no indication of the past heartbreak they have all just witnessed, or signs of any significance this memory may provide. Just a pleasant midnight stroll.

Then Connor gasps, a horrible, horrible, _horrible_ noise. His sudden cry is filled with panic and lathered with desperation for what Simon can only guess. The view pans violently to the concrete below Connor’s feet as he falls to his knees, and Hank stands to attention.

Simon listens in agony as his friend continues to struggle for air, ripping at the pavement with his synthetic fingernails. His head bobs up and down as if to smash it on- _he does_. He smashes his forehead into the hard, hard ground over and over and over again until the screen is nothing but a blue stain.

Then just as soon as the madness began, it ends. Connor sucks in an enormous puff of air, as if resurfacing from under the current of a deadly wave. He is left panting and winded, unable to look away from the pool of his own blood, not unlike the viewing party Simon is a part of.

To suddenly revert to self-destruction without any given warning…Simon has never seen anything like it, not even during the lowest days of the revolution.

“Amanda.”

The name spouts from Hank’s lips like a devilish curse. It’s coated in venom and seared in terrible omens, striking fear into Simon’s heart the instant it is thrown into the room. When he looks to the lieutenant, he can see the name hits him the same exact way.

Connor drags himself back to his feet and continues on his less-than merry way, stumbling over himself repeatedly on more than one occasion. Once, he releases a sliver of a wail but silences himself with what looks like a clasped hand to his mouth. After such a breach of his volition, Simon is astonished it’s the only time Connor nearly does break. His friend makes it to a nearby streetlight and spares a minute to lean against it for support, reaching a hand up to rub at his damaged forehead and pulling his fingers back to his face to reveal a fresh smattering of thirium.

It occurs to Simon in that very moment how they could all very likely lose Connor before the end of this week, and just how powerless he is to stop Death’s cruel justice. The thought puts him back in an abandoned freighter, wandering the hauls to find a body lying here or there. They had been simple deaths, caused by a lack of sustainable parts or thirium to refuel on. There was nothing he could have done then, just as there is nothing he can do now.

Helpless consumes him, and as he grasps onto Markus’ hand once more he tries to block out the lapping of the lake’s water in his ears.


	15. The Answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard thinks. Gavin naps. Hank makes a choice he's made before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got 2 essays due Monday but I couldn't wait to get this chapter out so Guess I'll Die
> 
> Also 10,100+ HITS????? YALL ARE KILLING ME THIS IS SO SCARY AND AWESOME THANKS FRIENDS. I've never had this much of a reaction to anything I've written before and it means a lot to me. It's also super terrifying and I wouldn't be lying if I said I was a bit scared. But all fears and joking aside, I really appreciate all the support you all have given me. It means the world <33333 love you awesome nerds
> 
> TW: There's another suicide attempt near the end of this chapter. Without giving any spoilers it's similar to the one last chapter. Stay safe buds.

**July 2, 2040**

**1:38 AM EDT**

 

Hank has never been the one to keep in touch with others so well, his family included. He does remember way back yonder when he used to call his cousin a good once a week after she moved from her stuffy New York apartment to the flat plains of Oklahoma. She had lived there for nearly a decade without a single droplet of rain falling onto her house, the threats of the Midwest weather never even passing her mind. Then a tornado came one stormy night and knocked her house clear off its foundation without rhyme or reason.

She later moved to Oregon where tornadoes come once in a blue moon. Last Hank checked she was living happily with her wife and their many, many beagles, free of the raging wind currents of America’s bread basket.

That one tornado in an otherwise tranquil life parallels Amanda almost exactly.

The ex-handler makes one grand entrance that fateful June day and then goes eerily dormant. No other chaotic outbursts are made, and no more foreheads are smashed into the pavement with a murderous tempo. Hank digs through memory after memory, traveling through half a year in a matter of hours until his eyelids turn to led and his tongue shrivels behind his gums. There are large chunks he glosses over in his quest to drag the villainous queen out of her hideout, but even then, he receives the impression that Amanda’s appearance was a one-time cameo.

Hank knows better than to believe that, even for one second.

It’s late, far too late for him to unsheathe another memory log and return to battle. Frankly, his decrepit body and equally-decrepit emotional state needs those recommended eight hours of sleep (or five, if he’s being honest with himself). However, he finds himself tempted to start up another one and fall down the rabbit hole all over again. His fingers twitch as they hover above the illuminated screen, his lungs tight with anticipation and his heart skipping a beat. Oh, how easy it would be to simply tap another one. Just a tap. Just a simple tap-

No. Hank sets the tablet aside the moment his finger inches closer to hitting play. Thoughts such as that are the reason he’s lost so much time in the first place. He is exhausted beyond the point of a restless sleep, and at this rate he’ll be able to wake up a handful of hours later ready for another foe to challenge, no matter what form it takes.

Any time spent with his eyes close is wasted. He knows this. He knows his limitations, and the short amount of time granted to him. There’s enough at stake to warrant asking someone else to scan Connor’s memories while he’s out cold. An android’s brain can process so much more at a rate faster than any human brain can even begin to comprehend. A man like Markus could probably get to the root of the Amanda issue in a matter of minutes.

The thought sits in Hank’s stomach like a heavy pit. He can’t carve it out of himself, and he finds no reason to do so. It’s amazing how many limitations the human brain has, and yet how incredibly capable it is of realizing such crucial details when worn down to a fine mush. All day he has left the door open for anyone to come in and view Connor’s life with him like a movie. He thinks of Chloe’s breakdown, the rougher days of the case he stumbled upon, and the normal intimate moments that cone with everyday life.

He thinks of how much of his partner’s life he’s put on display without even realizing it, and the thought sickens him.

It takes little time for Hank’s mind to settle on a four-hour nap, and even less time than that for his body to slump onto the couch and curl into a comfortable sleeping position. He spends his last moments of consciousness beating himself up, demanding to know how he could let such a glaring warning go unnoticed.

Even when he pushes himself to do better, he’s no better off than he was before. It’s a discouraging note to fall asleep on, but it’s the one he does all the same.

 

**July 2, 2040**

**2:12 AM EDT**

 

The traffic light above Detective Reed’s car stands poised over the roadway, its red beacon a warning to all who dare to pass the white stop line before it shifts to green. It’s been a fully drawn-out two minutes since Richard was forced to bring the car to a halt, and now he stares back at the light as it goats him with everything it has.

The android spies from the rearview mirror his LED shift from a calm blue to a much more agitated yellow, a color he has grown less fond of with each and every passing day. Most of his brethren has since removed their LEDs since their deviation, allowing them much more ease in social situations. Beyond that, allowing them a sense of privacy and vulnerability that Richard has always been hesitant to give himself.

A snore from the passenger seat draws him from the traffic light’s taunting gaze and onto the slumbering form of Gavin Reed. The detective is curled into the fetal position, or at least as close to the fetal position as his seat belt will allow him. At best, his knees are tucked into his chest while the rest of his limbs sprawl limply all around him. Of course, there is the exception of the tight grip his right hand has on the financial records they have stayed out past midnight to retrieve.

Upon digging through Connor and Chloe’s respectful bank accounts, there were very few transactions found between the two of them since the start of their relationship to early January. Besides a few bucks here and there, possibly for nothing more than the occasional thirium mocha, there was never a transfer of funds exceeding $100. And there was _certainly_ not a transfer large enough to cover the cost of Chloe’s rent since January 5 th.

However, someone has been paying off that enormous amount of rent and there are now printed transactions to prove it. Only the third account in question has a cryptid trail behind it so vast Richard doubts they’ll ever be able to trace it. It’s another dead end, another worm dangling on a hook just a hair shy from their gnashing teeth.

In three days, Chloe will have been missing for exactly half a year. The DPD has only just started to investigate her disappearance. The fact does not sit idle in Richard’s thoughts. Somewhere beyond their small scope of his predecessor’s life is a bigger picture they have yet to focus on. Just how big of a picture will it be?

From the corner of his eye, a haze of green shocks him out of his trance and soon Richard is speeding down the quiet roadway once more. He drives at a moderate pace, only a slim handful of miles above the appropriate speed limit. The yellow lines running alongside the car’s tires stream into a thin, pulsing line that runs almost as ramped as the android’s thoughts.

If only he could turn his brain off for a few hours like his reluctant partner. What a liberty dreaming must be, instead of chasing lead after lead his mind supplies him in place of the truth he doesn’t have.

 _They_. The truth _they_ don’t have, of course.

There has to be something he’s- _they’re_ missing. A prominent media figure before the revolution doesn’t just up and vanish just like that. There are plenty of RT600s out there still in the world, having also fled from Elijah Kamski’s birdhouse, but to think there is a whole apartment complex of people who were neighbors to one and have yet to contact the authorities.

Richard backtracks as he flips on the turn signal and changes lanes. Someone had called the authorities, which they now know thanks to a recent call from Reed’s coworker Tina Chen. For a “beat cop,” Chen dug far deeper than she was ever asked to do, and it wouldn’t be a stretch to say she would make an excellent detective one day. It would be a crime if she never rose to such a position.

A woman by the name of Ophelia Dane had called into the station on January 11th, 2039, around noon. Dane lived, and still does live, only a few doors down from the famous blonde android. She had spoken with an officer by the name of Johnathan O’Neil, reported how Chloe hadn’t returned to her apartment in nearly a week, and hung up not ten minutes afterwards. According to Chen, if O’Neil ever filed a missing person’s report, it never made it into the system.

Except it clearly had because she found it. Only the report had been closed, despite the fact that Chloe still hasn’t set in that apartment since Dane called in. Someone closed the case, and that person would have to be inside the DPD to have done so.

Richard had tried to discuss this earlier with his detective counterpart, but it was obvious after they walked out of the bank with the financial records how deathly exhausted Reed was. All that was roused from the tired man was some light grumbling about Richard not crashing his car before he was out like a light. Now Richard’s only companion to bounce ideas off of is the echo in his own head.

Johnathan O’Neil is there next lead, without a shadow of a doubt. Whether he is the owner of the mysterious third bank account or just a desk jockey who failed to do his job, justice will still be sought.

The temptation to grab the detective’s phone out of his pocket and search for the man weights heavily in Richard’s mind. At this hour, O’Neil would have to be at his house slumbering away without a care in the world about what an android and his human partner may be doing. A rude awakening may rouse a quick confession and give him-them the answers they so desperately crave.

He just about lifts a hand off the steering wheel when the traffic light above him suddenly shifts to orange. In his moment of dilemma, Richard notices half a second too late a mini vain has pulled in front of them and has come to a peaceful stop. His foot slams on the brakes as a curse is muffled by his clenched jaw. The collision is softened tremendously by his quick reaction, but bumper meets bumper all the same as the light goes red.

Reed is thrown forwards, his seatbelt yanking him back as his limbs are flung every which way. The financial documents rain down like pelting hail as they are lost from his grip. It is safe to say the detective has been fully awakened by the impact, which is only made more prevalent by the stream of profanities that escape him.

“What the fuck?! _Shit!_ What’dya do, Dick?! You fucking crashed my car!”

“It is only a minor fender-bender.” Richard’s voice is a cool towel against an erupting volcano, meaning it has little effect over the tension in the air. “All you need to do is speak to the other driver and handle the insurance issues.”

Reed unclips his seat belt and throws it over his shoulder. “Jesus, what the fuck where you doing?! How hard is it to look at the god damn road?!”

“My apologies. I was…preoccupied.”

“With what? Did your super computer brain go into sleep mode or some shit? Most advanced robot on the planet and you can’t stop at a single red light.”

Something inside Richard hardens, freezing the thirium in his components solid. Then, almost immediately after solidifying, it begins to boil. “Advanced prototypes such as myself can still make _mistakes_ , detective. That fact doesn’t change because I wasn’t born with a flesh body like yours. And as a _matter_ of fact, the only reason the collision wasn’t worse was because of my heightened reaction time. With you behind the wheel, I bet we would be trapped behind an airbag right now.”

He watches through a fiery haze as the detective’s eyes shift from his gaze to his temple. It’s moments like these that give Richard the fleeting courage to rip out that damned LED, but once it’s over he knows his newfound power will be washed away. Reed’s expression shifts from raging annoyance to utter confusion, before settling on something slightly softer the android just can’t read.

“…please never say flesh body again,” is all he mumbles before slamming the car door.

Richard watches with wide eyes as his partner trudges up to the flustered driver of the mini van and pulls out his license. The magma sloshing around his biocomponents begins to cool, but smoke continues to curl off the heat that remains. He sits as rigid as a board, his grip on the steering wheel tight enough to break bone, and tries to climb back onto his train of thought from before.

He manages to hop onto the caboose right before it pulls out of the station, but Reed returns just as it fully picks up speed.

 

**July 2, 2040**

**5:01 AM EDT**

MEMORY LOG #17826

DATE: November 13, 2039

3:07 AM EDT

 

In the darkness, the only remnants of life Hank can make out is the faint flicking of a delicate brush against synthetic skin. There is no steady breathing to be heard, but as the silence lingers a light chuckle escapes from its tender grasp.

Chloe joins the sweet chorus with her own laughter. “What? Does it tickle or something?”

Connor continues to laugh. “My sensors are going crazy. They think I’m caught in some sort of blizzard.”

“Turn them off then, silly.” The brushing continues, the strokes much more drawn out this time around. “I’m almost done anyway, though. Soon you’ll be the prettiest boy at the ball.”

“I mustn’t forget my glass slippers,” he jokes along side her. It’s such a low-hanging reference to grab, but as someone who hardly makes human pop-culture references at all it throws Hank off guard. A short nap has done his body wonders, but while he may have stopped for a break the relentless train barreling through his conscious has not. It may never stop if this week continues to worsen.

With one last _swish_ , the brushing is replaced with two careful footsteps on what sounds like the carpet below Chloe’s feet. “Alright, you wanna see?”

The world comes into view as Connor opens his eyes and lifts them upwards to hers. Chloe is beaming with anticipation, her hand clutching her makeup brush close to her chest. He hums in acknowledgement, and immediately she’s placing her hands on his shoulders to turn him around. The apartment surrounding them turns into a  kaleidoscope as Connor’s chair swivels beneath him. Then suddenly the world is frozen again.

It’s a mirror, one of those cheap round ones normally sold with college dorm furniture. The frame is a flimsy teal plastic, with scuffs on the corners and warping on the “glass” to turn Connor’s chin below into a fun house portrait.

That does nothing to take away from his partner’s radiancy.

Soft, brown eyes have been lined with sharp wings of eye liner. Mascara curls his eyelashes towards the ceiling, gracing his orange eyeshadow with a layer of protection. On his cheeks are shimmering pools of blush, rosy and full of life like any blossoming flower would be. His lips glisten with sparkly pink lip gloss, the brown mole on his cheekbone a dark moon in its galaxy.

Connor is absolutely resplendent, and the joy in his eyes knocks Hank’s breath away.

“What do you think?” Chloe asks.

“I… _love it_.” Connor’s voice is barely above a whisper. He reaches a hand up to his cheek and hovers carefully over his painted skin. There’s fascination tucked in the crease between his eyebrows, and utmost glee in the smile that spreads across his face. “Thank you.”

Hank finds himself mouthing those same words as a foreign warmth fills his chest. It conquers one of the many demons waging in the war of his soul, and although there are many left to kill it does wonders for his state of mind. The couch beneath him now feels less like quicksand and more like a comforting embrace; he allows himself to sink into its cushions instead of staying perched on its edge.

Chloe leans onto Connor’s back, her hands taking root in his hair and ruffling his curls. “Thank _you_ for being such a patient model. You really think it’s good?”

“Of course!”

“And you’re not just saying that because we’re dating right?”

Connors eyes widen in horror. “No! Not at all!”

She breaks into a devilish smirk. “Biased mother fucker.”

“Hey!” Connor attempts to elbow her from behind, but a quick thrust of her hips places Chloe out of harm’s way. “I’m being sincere. I’ve…I’ve never given my appearance much thought before, but now…”

He stares into his reflection, and Hank swears to God he locks eyes with him. He can hear his partner’s thoughts, the amusement and wonder that fills him up like a balloon and carries him far into the stratosphere. It’s the only connection they’ve had since the week started, and although it’s not a real conversation Hank waits for Connor to speak to him all the same.

When his smile grows, Hank smiles along with him. His jaw lowers, his tongue moments from releasing another stream of admiration, when Chloe beats him too it.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why do you…still have your LED?”

Connor stills, his smile vanishing. Hank’s drops too. Suddenly, the rec room grows much colder, the couch cushion grasping onto his limbs to drag him under their suffocating surface. He would fight to stay afloat if he wasn’t dedicating every lick of his attention to his troubled partner.

“I…I don’t know why,” Connor replies weakly. “I haven’t given it much thought before…b-before just now.”

Chloe nods her head slowly, clearly seeing through his lies. “Do you want me to take it out for you?”

“No.”

The reply comes too quickly to be dismissed. It cancels out the lousy excuse Connor gave before and forces him to either conjure up a new one or come clean. His eyes find Chloe’s in their shared reflection, then dart downwards to his lap. The color is drained from his newly-revived face, taking with it the sense of security that was given to Hank.

A much tenser silence falls over the couple. Chloe’s lips dig down into her cheeks, creating dark divots of disappointment. She frees her hands of Connor’s curls and moves to stand back onto her full weight.

It’s when she takes a step backwards that Connor breaks. “I’ve thought about it before. T-Taking it out…throwing it away. Just…”

His words suddenly waver and sensing the need for comfort Chloe moves to kneel beside him. Connor stares into the blue oceans of her eyes and blinks heavily.

 “Whenever I try to…something inside me tells me it’s not… _time_. That I need to wait. Does…does that make sense?”

Chloe shakes her head patiently. “Make me understand.”

“I…well…” Connor looks to his hand as they cradle one another. Not a moment later Chloe is slinking one of hers into his grip. Their skin peels back and a connection is made.

Snippets of memories flash before the screen, coming in such quick bursts it takes all of Hank’s willpower to decipher them. Connor standing in front of the bathroom mirror, Connor with a knife up to his LED, Connor back in front of the mirror with different clothes on, again and again and again. He’s sitting on his bed displaying two different flags from the holograms in his palms. One is layered with pink, yellow, and blue. The other is a black triangle with a dark green stripe to part the seas of opposing greys. Then it’s back to the mirror. Back to the flags. Back to the mirror. Back to the flags.

The static images clear as the connection is severed, though the androids continue to hold onto each other. Connor looks to Chloe to meet a sympathetic smile. “Hey Connie, you don’t have to figure out that stuff all right away.”

Connor sucks in a sharp breath. “But…I was so certain of my asexuality. Why not this?”

“Sometimes you just _know_ ,” she reassures him. There is a level of understanding in her voice that must come with its own story, but Hank has a feeling it won’t be included in this memory. “And sometimes, you have to be patient. You’ll figure it out in time, and when you know…you’ll know. You don’t need a label to be who you are.”

She lifts one hand from their nesting of fingers and reaches up to tap at his temple. While Hank can’t see where her finger lands, he’s sure its on a certain glowing circle. He hears the breath that comes from Connor’s smile, and in that moment, everything is made whole again.

Then everything goes to hell.

In the span of an instant, Connor rips his hands out of Chloe’s, grabs the mirror off the wall, and proceeds to slam it onto the table in front of him. Hank raises to his own feet as he hears Chloe shoot to hers, her frantic questions doing nothing to stop her boyfriend’s violent actions. The mirror hits the table over and over and over again, but its plastic backing does nothing but warp even further. Without a crack to be seen, his partner improvises, turning the mirror on its side so one of the edges is pointed straight towards his skull.

As Amanda swings Connor’s head down, Hank’s startled cry is drowned out by Chloe’s own.

Thirium drips down onto the table, first as a trickling stream but rapidly it turns into a spitting facet. A rhythm is formed in the jerking movements Connor’s head takes going up and down, up and down, up and down. It drums itself into Hank’s head, morphing into a murderous symphony of creaking plastic and shrilled screaming. With the absence of some strings to accompany it, the melody pushes Hank’s fragile heart to beat as fast as it can possibly go.

Then two hands are cupped around Connor’s eyes, and his head is forced backwards. Chloe is crying out his name, begging him to stop with a shrill in her voice that could shatter glass. She doesn’t have a clue as to what has caused this outburst, and it’s evident in the sudden sob that escapes her.

They struggle, sob versus silence, until it suddenly just ends. Connor stills underneath her grasp, sucking in air as if he’s been submerged under hot tar. Cautiously, two trembling hands are pulled back from his face and the bloody aftermath of Amanda’s newest attack takes up the screen. The mirror is completely drenched in thirium, the tip that nearly split Connor’s head in half nothing but a bent nub of teal silicon.

A new thirty seconds later, Connor manages to catch his unneeded breath and rises shakily from his seat. He turns to face Chloe almost tentatively and judging by the sheer fear plastered over her face Hank can’t fault him for it. Tear race down her face in fat streaks, her mouth agape in pure horror. Blue blood drips from her fingertips, staining the carpet below her in abstract designs. Her entire body is trembling, and while it is no longer in place Hank can see her LED pulsing red.

“Chloe? Chloe, are you hurt?” Connor takes a step towards her and she flinches. He draws himself back and looks down at his own bloody hands. He shakes his head, muttering something inaudible underneath his breath before returning her frozen gaze. “It’s okay now, Chloe. It’s okay. It’s over.”

“What...the hell w-was that, Connie?"

Her words are harder than stone, their impact swift and blunt. The underlying message carried in her tone eliminates any and all bullshit to follow.

Connor sucks in another breath. “M-My handler was trying to take control…She forced my self-destruction.”

“Self…handler. Who? W-Who is that, Connor?”

“Ah…Amanda…”

“How did she-?”

“She’s a program. Inside me. I…I can’t get rid of her. I… _I-I can’t get r-r-rid of her_ …”

Hank has been in his fair share of life-threatening situations, Connor alongside him for a fair handful. Together, they’ve been shot at combined total of nearly a thousand times. Yet, he has never heard Connor sound so scared before than he does now. There’s no gun, no bullet pointed at his head, but the lingering promise of a fate far, far worse.

And here Hank stands another world away. Separated by time and location, and even more than he fully realizes. He is reduced to the man he once was a fateful October day, with a hospital bed he should be standing beside to boot.

“I’ve been fighting her for so long….a-and I don’t know….how m-much longer I can _stop her_ …”

“How long…how long have you been fighting?”

“S-Since June…”

Chloe takes a cautious step forward. "How often does Amanda attack?”

“Once…twice a week-I can’t…She normally comes l-later in the day. I didn’t think she’d…” He squeezes his eyes shut. A sob of his own is blocked by clenched teeth. There are footsteps, and his eyes snap open as he back away from Chloe’s embrace. “Get back.”

“Connie-?“

“Get back… _please_ ….I d-don’t want to hurt you. I can’t control myself. _I can’t_ -I can’t lose-”

Chloe steps closer all the same, and despite how Connor stiffens at the contact her arms make it around his waist. He pushes back against her, but with his arms pinned at his sides he doesn’t stand a chance. As he thrashes around, his sobs slowly build until they are nothing but a broken wail. When he finally gives into the embrace, he all but collapses into her arms.

“Does-?”

“Hank doesn’t know…Hank doesn’t know…I d-don’t want to-“ He is cut off by another terrible, terrible sob, one that takes years off Hank’s lifespan. “I didn’t want to scare him. I didn’t w-want to scare anyone.”

It is an answer. It is The Answer, and yet Hank feels just as helpless as he did before. Just as isolated. Just as much as a failure. Here Connor was, dying, suffering, staying quiet about his troubles, just as Hank was and currently is. If this is the universe’s way of giving him a sign, it’s one he does not take gratefully. Anger burns in his gut, singeing his insides and lapping at his heart with fiery remorse. This moment was destined to come, created just to spite him, and has done its job in full.

But as Hank listens to Connor rack out sob after sob, his anger is doused to nothing but warm coals. This is his reminder as to why he is still alive. This is his reminder for all he has to live for. If not for his partner, his friend, and maybe something more than that, he would not be standing here today. All this time he has been wondering why he was given another chance to live, when the reason has been staring him in the face. It’s stared at him through a mirror, stared at him in his car outside a drug warehouse, and stared at him right in front of the Chicken Feed.

“We’re gonna stop her, Connie,” Chloe’s voice rises above his teary gasps. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore. I’m here. We’re gonna stop her. We’re gonna stop Amanda.”

It sounds as if Connor tries to argue against this, but his words are too gargled to be heard.

“Shhhhh…I’ve got you. You’re safe, Connie. You’re safe.”

 _He will be_ , Hank decides. If he’s going to fight, then he wants to fight with Connor at his side.

 

 

Dͯ̄ͨ͊́͒̀͌ͪ͒̽͏̵̛̩͇̪̝̞̰̰̟͔̜̥͙̦̗͡ąͧ̓̆͒͟͏̫̻̻̥̣͓t̸̵̶̸̛͍̤̟̺̫̠͈̱̤̖͇͋͋ͨ̅̈̾̊̈̎̄̐͑ͯ̽̌̚e̶̵͎̘̻͈̩̮̲͒̌̏̀ͭͪ̂̑:̡̬̼̜̥̫̲̝͖̩̟̫̪̩̯̆̍̅͛ͧ̊̇̃ͪ̏̉͋̾̂͊̓̆̌͛ͅ ̢̯̹̟͍͍̠̼̫̍̌ͬ͂̓̅ͫ͛͌ͧ̋̔̂ͬ̊̊͗͡͝͡Ȩ̱̺͓͍̲͚̥̗̝̬͇͓̮̹͉͓̬ͬ͛̿ͬ̾͛͂̚̕͜͟ͅR̵̴ͯ͋̃ͭ͘҉̳̪̯͔̜̱͎͚̰͚̯̠̥R̸̗̭͙̟͈̺͙͎͖͉̲͚͇̜̰͎͍ͬ́͒́͑̄̌ͭ́͑̍͛̀̕͠O̯̻͖̰͍̠̯̖͚̙̟̰̺͙̥̣̺͋͑͒ͣ̉ͫͭ̽ͦͫ͞͡ͅͅR̴̵̢͔͖͈͖̯͖̻̦̭̗̰̦͉̞̗̲ͭ̋ͤ̓͛̃͆ͫ̉̀ͣ̏ͯ͊͛͂̚͘͡ͅ  
ͪ̈ͨ͑̏̎̉͗̅̍̍҉̛̯̠̮̱̫̻̤̙̱T̠͓̳͍̳̍̔̅ͧͨ̕͝͞͠i̡̓̍̏͌̌̏ͬ̂́͌̌͒̚҉̰̹͈̬̙̬̮͉̼͡m̨̛̱̩͍̰̯̜͕̼͎̟̭͙̞͚ͥͫ̐͛͒̾ͩ̕ęͧ̒ͧ̋ͫ̉̽̾ͯ̾͆̽ͪͬ̊̎ͦ̔̎͜҉͏̸̥͓̼̗̦͓̝:̊̋͒͆̃ͭ̀͊͂͡͡҉̼͙͖̗̠͚̺ ̶̴̛͇̤̗͔̲͈ͪ̌̀̄̂̔̀̍ͪ͊͒͗̆̚͢͢E̵͙͙͎̞͕̰͙̻̮̣̪̳͔̒͆́ͨ̓̅̉͞R̶̞̙͙̩̤̦̼ͥͭ̈ͦ̆͑ͅR̷̢̈́͆̊͑̾̑ͬ͂̂ͧ̉̓ͨͨͨ̅҉̸̡̰̝͈̜̝͙̩͓̩̘̠̤O̶ͨ̉̾̓͐̿ͬͨ̆ͥ̇̌̉̓̇̎͌ͬ҉͚͕͉̹̥̰͙̦̝R̼̣͙̻̯͇̘̭̰̫̻̥̱͆ͦͬͨ̔͂ͣͨ̈ͬ̓͑͊̚͢͟  
̭̜̯̰̠̼̖̻͐ͪͨ̅ͪͥͮͮ͐͆͒̑̐ͭ̎̈́̌ͨ͜͠ͅ  
̷̷̢̭͍̲̙̫̯̗͉̻͈̭̝̮̫̟̳̭̠̃̿̃͂ͪ̓̆̈̈́̊Ṣ̵̶̶̞͖̘̣̙͇̱̹͚̫̳̯̩̲̬̰̓̾ͫ̉ͨͣ͘T̡̧̡̬͔̯̲͕̩̹͇̳͆͆́̐ͬͣ̉̚͟͠A̳̰̝͈̳̮̗̭͓̖͎̦̩̪̙ͫͭ͋ͥ̿̍̓̕͠T̝̖̭̤̥͖͍̜͇̰̘̦̰̆̆͊͐͆̈̄͌ͫ̏͜͢Ȋͯ͗̔͋̉ͩͥ̒͌̌͝҉҉̜̫͍̳͘S̨͙̼̼͎͓͔̟̽̒ͭͤ̈͊̊ͪ̄͐ͤ͑̇͋̊ͧ͛̕ͅ ̷̴͕̪̣͓̺̱̮͈̳̩̟̘̭ͪ͂ͩͤ͛͐̈́ͥ̅͐͂̏̄ͮͤͅĘ̛̘̙̫̯̭̟͕̲̘̻͖͇̗͉ͣͧͦ̅ͦ͋͋̽͆̄̂́̏̽̏̚ͅR̗̩̪͉̗̭̞̙̩̫͍̖̲ͭ̀͌͒͞R̵̶͚̘̙͓̦̩̠̳͇̱̣̮͍͉̝͓͐͛ͨ͛̈ͪ̉̂͑ͤ̂̍͌͑͋̒̃͆O̴̷̰͚̜͓͖̙̥̯͔͈̭̗̟͎̘̟̠̰̝̽͋̿͐̍̐ͪ̉͘R̶̠̰̳̳̩͇͚͓ͩ͒͐͊̐̎ͣ̄̉̋̍̈̍͢͡ ̴̴ͩ̅̇̂ͫ̈́̍͛̒ͤ͊́͒̎̎͆͏̢̛̮̥̻̖̱͎P̝̥͖̲̜͕̹͈̟̘͉̪͛̆̅̓͐͋̍̎ͧ͌ͣ̈̐ͭ̎̓̓͞L̨̢̛͈̲̖̮̼͎̜͇͎̙͎̬͕̱͒̇͊́̽ͤ̎̊̚͜͢E͑̿̿͆҉̫̼̠͇͈̼̪̝̣̦͚̜͉̝̜̹̖̩Ą̶̻̻͖͕̦̮̖̮͖̪̩̲̲͎͈͋̎̌͐̉͌̆̅̿ͤ͌̚͞͠S̶̶̝̖̗͕͚̯̗̀͒͂̽̊̈̋̓ͣͣͫ̒̐͊̌͑ͧË́̔ͮ̅ͬ̉̐̋ͨ̈́ͧ̓͑̑͑͟҉̰̘̤͚̬̪͙̭̫̜͞ ̍ͫ͌ͥ̓̿ͤ̀͢͟҉̙̘͈̬̺̬̞̬̯̤̼̱̫͉̬̼̟̞Sͬͧͥ́͊̃̈́̈̆̆̕͘҉̭̥͙͙͎̬͓̱͉͔̣̬ͅE͙͉̥͔̫̟̟̳̟͎̹̯̰͑̏̐͌̈́̌ͯ̀̂͂̈ͤ̄̎̐͋̋̚͜ͅĘ̴̧̲͎̫͖̰̪̼̭̱̙̘̱̬̺̰̜͍͓̅̄͛́͐̌̿͛̕͜K̴̶̡̡̞̣̠͖̱̦̙͙͎͚̹̫̺͕̰̦̑̋̋̈̒̃͒͂̊͂̒̄ͮ̾͑̚͘ ̧͉̝̯̫̺̙̠̰̬͍̪̣̠̙̤̪ͭͮ̍́͆ͅÁ̧̛̼̮̠̈́̔ͦ̆̇͌̌̕S̨̢̙͖̗̜̥̲͙͕̜͖̗̣̜ͣ̒ͯ͒̒̌ͫ̆̽̌ͥͅS̵̟̥̜̻̅ͤͦ̇͐̿̎̈́͂ͯ͐͒̽͒̕ͅI͉̻͉̩͙̣̼̝̥̞̭̬͚̘͐̓͒ͪ̓̆̒ͧ̆͐̏̔ͨ̉͆ͯ̋̂ͅS͇͕̰͍̺̼̹̊̑ͦ̓͗ͤͥ̊ͥ͗̔ͦͣͣ͢͜Tͮ̊̽̇ͩͫͫͯ̈́͑͊ͮ͗̄͛ͭͫ̒͏̬̩͍̪̟͉͖͇̮̻̣̩̥Ȃ̛͕͉͖̟̣͓͇͈͎̰͎͉͓̊̔͌͂͌ͧ͛͋ͯ̃̈́̓̿ͭͩͭ̅̕ͅN̛̄͌̒̔͆͒̉̕͜͏̗̙̱̩̬̠̥̦̟̩͍̜ͅC̵̨̢̧͕̘̯͎͎̞̪͇̜͎̯̲̰͓͇̲͚͊ͭ̒̏͛̿̿͌ͫ̋̍̂E̷̷͑̂̓̓̈ͤ̾̀̂͏̳͔̗͉̩͙̱̖̦̖̹͍͎͖͙ͅ  
̴̩̯̥̲͚̲̤̫̼͔̰͆ͫͫ̄̅͋͛ͯ̃̉̆͗͘̕͢͜F̸̢̤̖̤͙̱͖͈̼̤͒ͣͪ̔̃́̐ͩ̋̅̀ͩͦ̂ͣ̌Ō̵̶̰̣̲͖̗̙͔̺͖͕̯͍͚̩͓͓͑ͦ̄̀͂̈̏̆̓̄ͨ͊̂̓̎̋̎̿͜͝R̾͑͊̾̾̓̓͊̑ͨ͊͐ͮͦͤͨͩ̾҉̷̶͓̭̝̥͍̝̺ͅC̵̬͖̜̱̰̱̻̥̿̀̃̍̌ͮ̽̈́ͯ͒̅ͨ̅ͤE͇̫͔̖̮̹̫͕̤̙̩͊ͯ̿́̍̈̓͘͢ ̡̡̳͕̦̰͎̞͉͔̹͕̩ͥ̇̍̄̒̏ͬͣͯ̾͂͐̾͂̓͛W̿̽̐͋̑͒̀ͯͩ̈́̇͂̒̽̌ͮͨ̚͏̧̧͚̯̥̠͎̯̩̥A̴̵̡̝̬̯̮̺̼̥̬̞̜̙͈̱̹ͪ͌̂̐͊̏ͤ̾̃͡K̨̢̖̺̠̫͉̻̙͚̘̮̫̯̣̟̣̬̎͋̍̓̇̒̏̒͒̒ͯ̑̔ͯ͊̑̓͝͠E̴̢̛͎̬̱̜̤͓͎̞̫̖͓͚ͤ̂̂̉̓̎ͤ̆̒ͥ-̨͖̹̟̥̫ͮ̆ͧͫ̒ͫ͊̊͋ͮ͆̆Ǔ̡̡̥̫̝̲̞̞̮̱̺͙͇̯̝̲͆̓̌̂ͧͤͪ́ͧͤ͗̃ͤͤ̆̏ͅP̧̝͖̰̮͖̝̰͓̼ͫ̌̾͂̉͗̋̆̈̃̿̌ͬ͗̔ͨͨ͘ ̷͇̜͔̮̥̳͎̫͓̭̲̂ͪͨ̂͂̊̑͐̾̿̇͊ͧ̿͒͛ͦ̍͘͜I̛͊͆͑̈̿̄̌ͣ͋̚͏͚͎̘̱͍͎̼̺̱̳͈̝̗̥͎͞Ņ̯̟̗͓͕̫̝̪͕͇͚̦̘̼̳̖̐̐͗̈́̔ͣ̈̌ͤ͐̏̕ ̘̺̹̞̲̮̬͎̓̐̂̇̒͗ͥ̑̉̊ͣ̕ͅP̴̴̰͖̣͇̺̩̖̦̫̙̙̗͈͖͙̠ͦͯ̊͌ͯ̄͑̐̅̃̌̏ͫ͋̿́ͤͅRͪͥ͗ͮ͜҉̶̵̰̝̹̙͖̮̲̥͍̼̮͙̱͎̼Ôͤ̅ͨ̈́͗̃̐̇̍͂ͨ͏̨̞͔̜̼̙̳͙͕̭ͅǦ̷̛̝͉̲̮̲̳̣̯̙͕̳̉̾̊ͣ̓̇ͪͫ̓͐̓ͦ͐ͤͪ̕R̢̪͓̦͔̬̩̠̝̹͎̗͗̀ͯͯͨ͋̐̎ͣ͊ͬ͂́ͩ̄̐̈́̃̕͢͝Ę̥͎̭̣͇̼̫̪̫̋̐̍ͤͦ̂ͭ͊ͫ̆̊ͣ͐̓̀̓̉̉̕͟Ṣ̴̣̦̹͔͑͋̽̽̾̏̉̄̉̒ͥ̉̾ͫ̉̌̄͝S̒͑́̾̈́ͭͥ̏̋́ͣ̋̄̑̓͛̆҉̳̬̮̯̝͙̱̕

 

 

Ice is speckled along the roses like crawling parasites, sucking the life out of each petal at an agonizingly pace. All that is spared are the thorns climbing up the stem, their tips cutting through the snowy wind and keeping the flowers alive just a little while longer.

A hand reaches up and plucks a single, brittle rose from its vine. The moment it is ripped from its brethren, it withers in the woman’s grasp. It is tossed into the wind, carried by the billowing currents until it lands in a nearby pond with a thunderous _splash_. The woman pays no mind to the abandoned flower, nor the pond it will spend the rest of eternity at the bottom of. She reaches for another rose and wraps her fingers around the thorns she can no longer feel.

Suddenly, her hand freezes in midair. With her own strength, she can not seem to pull it free. After several seconds, a jolt goes through her body and her movement returns to her.

Someone is messing with her code. Someone is trying to stop what she’s already started.

Alarming yes, but surprising no. This just means she will have to rely on the pawn she thought was of no more use to her.

Turning her eyes back to the pond, she watches the water ripple and part as a head bobs above the surface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I like???? Do something special bc of all the hits??? I doubt I'm big enough for a Q&A or something and what would you all even ask??? help


	16. What If

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard offers a terrifying possibility. Gavin builds a bridge. Hank sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still rolling these bad boys out as i battle school (which is totally kicking my behind but i refuse to go down). thank you all for the incredible support as always! your kindness never ceases to amaze me :)
> 
> TW: another attempted suicide warning but it's more mentioned. Also we're finally diving a bit into that illness tag. stay safe buds

**July 2, 2040**

**6:08 AM EDT**

 

“Johnathan O’Neil, 39 years old. Finished with the police academy three years ago and quit unexpectedly early February.”

Emanating from Richard’s palm is a holographic depiction of O’Neil’s pasty complexion, with sagging jowls and deep, dark bags to boot. Tuffs of dusty, caramel locks are whipping across his scalp with the grace of a beginner pastry chef icing their first cake. The ex-cop’s entire appearance screams of a downward spiral, and it takes Hank less than a second to pin the exact cause of such a fall.

“Lemme guess. He got into red ice?”

“Looks that way,” Gavin mutters. “Tina says he got a misdemeanor about a month ago for loitering in an area known for dealings. I don’t think it’s a stretch to say he fucking bailed because he knew he was in too deep.”

Tension tugs at the muscles in Hank’s shoulders. “Got an address?”

“Yep.”

“Well, then go give a knock on his door.” His words are meant to be final, like the concluding swing of a blade into an enemy’s torso. Hank leans farther back into the couch below him, expecting as he pulls the tablet back into his lab his informants will have already left the room. Instead, he finds the temporary partners exchanging awfully similar gazes. Brown, fretful eyes meet hesitant blue irises, and lips curl downwards.

They are holding a silent conversation Hank is not a part of.

“What’ya waiting for?” he asks gruffly. “Get a move on.”

It’s Gavin who musters the courage to speak, though the detective has been prone to running his mouth when Hank would rather he keep it shut. “Robo ease dropper and I were talking on the way here…after he crashed my car and all-“

“Again, I am dreadfully sorry my moment of distraction, Detective Grudge-holder-“

“Oh, don’t you start with me, you fucking-!“

“That’s enough!” Hank snaps. The two men before him still. “You got something to say Gavin, spit it out while I still got the patience.”

Gavin’s eyes dart to his feet, then for a split-second look back to meet Richard’s. Another conversation is held, and just before Hank is about to kick them out for good a confession spill out.

“Hank, we don’t think O’Neil’s our guy.”

A quizzical look overtakes Hank’s features, and he’s sure of it by the arch his eyebrows take. Richard gapes in a moment pure horror besides Gavin before clearing his throat. “What Detective Reed is trying to articulate is that…and if I must say, ‘we’ is a fairly strong word-“

“Oh, shut it, you prick. You agreed with me!”

“Maybe so, but-“

“SHUT _UP!_ ” The earthquake Hank’s billowing voice triggers shakes his very core, and it is made clear by the paling of Richard and Gavin’s faces that they’ve finally been silenced into submission. And one of them cannot even physically pale. Hank leans forward onto the edge of the couch, props his elbows on top of his knees, and laces his fingers together tightly. “Please, Gavin…. _explain_.”

Gavin’s Adam’s apple bobs sharply. “O’Neil’s connection is too loose. The guy could’ve lost the chick’s file because he was high or something. He’s got no ties to Cyberlife or any anti-android groups either. What happened just…seems like too big a coincidence to go off of.”

Hank presses his chin to his knuckles, the scruff of his goatee digging into his weathered skin. He hums lowly, a rumble rising from his chest. “Yeah, but you remember what red ice’s made of, right? Could be…could be possible he sought an android out for some thirium and…a-and Chloe was the first one to cross. Then when he got the report, he buried it away so he wouldn’t be found out….then again her _text messages_ …her texts were _way_ too fucking cryptic...it’s like she _knew_ something bad was gonna happen to her…”

None of the paths Chloe may have taken are leading them anywhere present. Hank can only hold on to the slim glimmer of hope that when they do find her, they can bring her back to Jericho in one piece.

Richard clears his throat again, his unneeded breath catching for just a moment. “There’s…another possibility we haven’t touched upon yet.”

Hank braces himself for the onslaught of fears that is rearing to attack him. “Shoot, son.”

“You…when you allowed me to watch that memory log, with Connor and Chloe at her apartment…” He falters, out of sympathetic decency or something else Hank isn’t sure. “I think it should be taken into consideration it’s entirely possible Connor could have killed Chloe.”

The blinders Hank once had have been obliterated by this one impossible possibility. He reels backwards, his hands flying to his sides in shaking fists and a spring in his step as he leaps to his feet. “ _No_.”

“Not Connor willingly, of course,” Richard is quick to add. “As Amanda.”

“No. No, Con-“ Suddenly, it’s so much harder to breathe. “Connor couldn’t do that. Not even as…no, not possible.”

Cold sweat is trailing down his face as a fire burns Hank from the inside. His gut is fighting with everything it has to disprove this statement he knows in his heart has every chance to be true.

But it _can’t be._ It can’t be true because…because…

Because it just can’t. Hank of all people knows that’s not a valid excuse, but it’s the only crutch he has to lean on.

He wants to tear down the thought with his own two hands, pry every word that has come out of Richard’s mouth with his brittle fingernails, and dance among the ashes as he burns the very concept into oblivion. If he were standing in any other position, with a million more hours on his side and a working brain in his partner’s head that didn’t have a bullet in it, maybe, _maybe_ he would have that luxury. He could look Gavin in the eye and tell him to drag O’Neil by the scruff of his neck right to his feet.

This is the burden of a leader, of a captain. How Jeffery has survived a day battling the rapids of personal affairs and the lives of other people Hank will never know. He can barely stay afloat as it is keeping himself in good health, and until recently he didn’t need to. Connor has always there as his helping hand, his right-hand man, the son he thought he had lost forever, and so much more than even that. Now he has no one to fall back against, to clasp his shoulder and say something, _anything_ to offer support.

What he would do to hear the kid’s voice now. Not as a recording or even Richard’s own. Just Connor. He wants to talk to Connor. He just wants to see his boy.

He can hear the heart monitor, feel Cole’s hand in his. He’s slipping again, falling off the icy cliff down onto the sharp rocks below.

“The idea is upsetting,” Richard speaks softly, the tone thorns to Hank’s heart. “But until we know more about how Amanda operates-“

“Dick, stop,” Gavin attempts to step in.

“We can’t ignore that-“

“Richard, cut it _out-_ “

“Connor’s body is capable of committing-“

Gavin grabs a fistful of Richard’s dark undershirt into his hand and yanks the android’s face into his own. “GOD DAMN IT! Can’t you take a fucking hint?! _Shut the hell up!_ ”

The hostility curling off Gavin in wisps of smoke is too powerful a stench to be ignored. Hank takes a deep breath of whatever clear air his lungs can take in and inserts himself into the situation. “Enough. Go to O’Neil’s. Bring him in for question. Whether it was him or…or someone else, he’s still our main suspect. We can speculate later.”

Neither Gavin or Richard move from their tense positions. Their eyes lock onto Hank’s with wavering confidence.

“ _GO!_ ”

Gavin’s hand releases Richard’s shirt form his grip and the two are out of the room not a second later. Isolated yet again, Hank sinks back into the couch, reaches from the tablet, and fights a knot rising to his throat.

 

**July 2, 2040**

**6:15 AM EDT**

 

It only takes two callous swipes of Richard’s hands to smooth the wrinkles caused by his fuming partner, but it will take much more effort to wipe the memory of Lieutenant Anderson’s face from his mind.

The gloss over his tired eyes, the quiver in the corners of his lips, the weight in his voice that shook him more than that fender bender ever could. He knew speaking of Chloe’s possible demise could of course fester the wound, and yet he never counted on walking out of the recreation room so…exhausted, he believes is the right term to use.

It’s strange. His movements are forced, his very thoughts like pushing a boulder triple his size along an uneven path. When he tries to conjure a string of words to pass along to Reed as an apology, he comes up empty handed. This is hardly the first person he has come across in his investigations who has gotten teary-eyed, but this time it’s different. It shouldn’t be different. Why is it different?

He blames himself for this emotional outcome, where their only reward seems to have been harsh words and trembling spirits. If it hadn’t been so effortless to slide into such a debate on the way to Jericho, maybe this conversation could have ended with less of a mess that will need cleaning afterwards. But Richard is curious to a fault, and Detective Reed seems to only spur his racing thoughts, even if the two are on rather bad footing as of late.

That’s what he needs right now. Some thoughts. Something to distract him, or at least put his mind on the right track again. He doesn’t want to believe Connor killed Chloe, despite their texts and his predecessor’s defensive programming. From what he has been allowed to see, Connor has lived quite the adventurous life since his activation. His struggles with deviancy mirror Richard’s own with scary similarities, but what the RK900 lacks mainly is the family the RK800 has found.

What Richard would give for a friend in place of a client, a hug outside a food truck instead of a strict handshake. What he would give to sit on the couch late into Sunday mornings, take walks with a certain old saint Bernard, have a significant other to have and to hold, to be trusted and cared for.

It’s a past that could end any day now, a past he wishes could be his future.

Time to worry about himself will be plentiful later. He switches gears to focus on Amanda, the root of the issue. Such a program has never existed in any other model, just exclusively for the RK800. Then again, Cyberlife has been one to keep certain aspects of their works under wraps, court marshaled or not. There is enough mystery and speculation attached to Markus, the only RK200 model of his kind. Who knows what kind of secrets are hidden behind his heterochromia, or Richard’s own-

A light goes off above Richard’s head, or more specifically on the side of his forehead.

“Detective, I think it’s best if I stay here.”

His excitement does not mix well with Reed’s agitated state. The detective whips his head around to face him with a sneer across his face. “Oh, don’t think you can fucking bail now after the crap you just pulled.”

The words dim the glow enveloping the private investigator, but do not kill it completely. “I am not trying to bail on anyone. Whatever program Amanda is a part of is original to an RK model.”

Gavin crosses his arms stiffly. “I don’t have the patience to play your shitty game of connect the dots. Spit it out, Alexa.”

  Richard narrows his gaze but continues regardless. “It is entirely possible whatever program she is apart of I could have, too.”

That wipes the grimace right off the detective’s face. “Whoa, whoa, hold up. You don’t think you’d, like…?”

“The thought…never occurred to me, but if my logic is sound I guess it could be true. That’s not my point, thought. If we share the same programming, perhaps there is someone in Jericho who can go through it and find a way to shut it down.”

“So-wait…you wanna turn yourself into a guinea pig?!” Gavin asks. There’s a shrill to his voice that seems oddly out of place given his normal demeanor.

“It may speed up our investigation, and if not there’s no real harm done,” he reasons.

“No real harm-? Dick, they’re gonna go through your head! W-What if they do freaky shit to your…your…?”

“A trained professional will not cause any harm to me,” Richard assures him. “The worst outcome I can see is that it turns out Amanda is inside me as well…in which case at least we wouldn’t be finding out later when it’s too late. Besides, after what just happened with the lieutenant, it may be best if we spent some time apart. I…did not mean to upset you two as so.”

Gavin just stress at him, long and hard. Pure disbelief ravages his facial features, parting his lips far back enough to reveal the white tips of his canines. He seems frozen in place, and after a moment Richard starts to grow concerned.

“Do…you have someone convenient you can call to take with you to O’Neil’s? I’d hate to leave you by yourself and have something terrible happen.”

“Yeah…yeah I got Tina,” Gavin speaks as if caught in a daze. “Look, what you did in there…God, l-like I can’t lie. I was thinkin’ it too. Just…Hank’s been through enough shit already. You didn’t have to continue on after you made the point crystal fucking clear.”

Richard finds sudden interest in the carpet below him. “I understand. Forgive me. I…still struggle with proper communication.”

An airy laugh bursts from the detective out of nowhere. “Nah, you ain’t as bad as Connor was. Do you, like…uh…fuck, how do I say this?”

Gavin start to fidget with the ends of his sleeves and Richard watches him with patient interest. He senses a total shift in the direction their conversation was previously going, and it alarms him. How should he proceed? With the same apologetic tone or something more casual? But if he changes his tone to something inappropriate surely the detective will snap at him again.

Human interaction is incredibly difficult.

“Look, you’re an alright guy. I didn’t expect you to be…sympathetic and shit, so…God, I’m fucking this up.”

Richard smiles nervously. “You’re fine, Reed.”

“Uh, thanks. And call me Gavin, alright? Reed’s too fucking proper.”

“Yes, you don’t seem like a proper man at all.”

“I’m trying to form an apology here, so a little less assholery would be great y’know?”

A chuckle rises through Richard’s body and lifts him what feels like a foot off the floor. The same ease he felt on the car ride to Jericho returns, and with that ease comes a level of foreign comfort. He finds himself smiling softly as Gavin continues to fight for his words.

“Look, I wasn’t always-and I’m still not…the greatest guy. I’m the real dick, not you Dick. So i-if you want me to lay off the robo jokes just say the word, okay?”

Richard nods. “I would like that very much so…if you don’t mind of course.”

Gavin nods back. “Not at all buddy. I hear ya loud and clear.”

“And, please…for the love of ra9, call me Richard. Or Rich if you desire. Just not Dick.”

Gavin smirks. “Alright, alright. I hear that, too.” Then his face falls. “You, ah, gonna be alright by yourself? Sure you don’t wanna wait for me to come back or whatever?”

Richard ponders over this for a moment, then chooses the answer he doesn’t want to give. “No, I’ll be fine. Besides, you don’t have much time to rile a confession out of O’Neil. Be careful out there, Gavin.”

Gavin stares at him once more, this time with a sense of longing Richard is not sure how to respond to. “Yeah…you too.”

The detective takes one step back, then another, before turning around and retreats down the hall. Richard watches his back until he disappears completely, then makes his way to the operating room, ignoring the rise in his stress levels.

 

**July 2, 2040**

**6:26 AM EDT**

 

MEMORY LOG #19466

DATE: May 20, 2040

1:19 AM EDT

 

The dark outline of a slumbering saint Bernard head fills the flat screen like a blurry JPEG wallpaper. Darkness rolls in from the night surrounding Hank’s house, burying couch buddies Sumo and Connor in a blanket of stark greys and indigos. The only sources of light to break free is the soft yellow hue from Connor’s LED and the faint beam coming from the kitchen sink light behind the screen.

A pregnant quiet hangs in the air, and Hank waits with baited breath for the gun pointed at his head to be reloaded with more soul-crushing ammunition. Barely ten minutes into the log with no action on Connor’s part as only escalated his apprehension. He tries to view the scene with the same rose-tinted glasses he once wore before Richard planted the terrible, terrible idea into his head that his partner could be a murderer.

No, not Connor, _Amanda_. But still Connor’s hands, Connor’s body, _Connor_.

Connor who bought him a drink at Jimmy’s Bar their fateful meeting, Connor who told him he liked dogs their second day as partners, Connor who risked his deactivation later down the line by saving Hank more times than he can count, Connor who keeps him happy and healthy and _alive_ , something he could never do himself.

His partner could never be a murderer, and yet that is the very real possibility Hank is faced with now.

His brain paints a horrifying canvas with Chloe’s spilt thirium and the matted blonde hair it stains. Connor’s hands are sketched in the sickly dark liquid, thick, wavy lines drawn around his fingers to show his trembling state. He can’t picture his partner killing the woman he’s given his heart to, especially so far back in the past. He can’t picture Connor dumping Chloe’s body somewhere and staying silent about it for so long. He can’t picture Connor on his own death bed half a year later sending a message to someone he knows will never pick up. It doesn’t make any sense.

Yet the thirium sticks to the canvas, and Hank prays to every deity he knows he never has to hang it on his wall.

Even now, as Connor puts a slow, delicate hand to Sumo’s head to pet him, Hank just can’t see it. Amanda is no one to be trifled with, he knows that, but he just _can’t_. For his sake, it just can’t. For both of them.

Sumo’s eyelids do not lift but the dog sluggishly licks his lips as Connor continues to rub the fur between his ears. The android sighs softly, but there is a not of tension that carries along with it.

“What am I supposed to do, Sumo?”

The question-no, the _plea_ comes out as barely a whisper. However, it rings loudly in Hank’s ears. He has to go back and think of what was possibly happening in May to warrant such a desperate call for help. Nothing was happening that he can recall. Except, of course, Amanda he assumes.

And Chloe would be missing by this point. Shit.

“You’ve known Hank longest,” Connor continues to whisper. “What would you say to him?”

Oh, it’s just another guilt-tripping for Hank. He almost sighs with relief. _Relief_. Days ago, this would have been his greatest fear. God, what a week this has been.

“I can’t just roll over and flash my puppy dog eyes like you…you beautiful dog you…I wish I was you. Not worrying yourself to self-destruction every day must be great…”

Lemon juice is squeezed into the open wound in Hank’s heart. A silence follows Connor’s words, leaving a greater impact in its wake in return. Timing really is everything.

“How come I can’t just _talk_ to him? I mean…I know why I can’t talk about some things….but I just… _fuck_ …”

Oh no. Swears are bad. Swears are _very bad_. Connor only swears if he’s pushed passed his limit. Hank’s eyes drift towards the left side of the screen, where he knows his bedroom door awaits offscreen. If only he could grab Connor by the shoulders and lead him to him then. Maybe that would finally rid the kid of some of the burdens he’s been saddled with.

“What’s gonna happen to him Sumo? Where is he gonna go? Why didn’t I notice sooner-I just…I don’t want to lose him…I-I can’t lose him now. Not after Chloe. I can’t lose him _too_ …”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck _fuck_. There it is. There it fucking is. Hank knew it. He didn’t want to believe it but he was right. Richard was right. Connor killed Chloe. Connor fucking killed Chloe and now his partner is going to die because his only chance of salvation is six feet under the-

A terrible, ugly sob just _explodes_ out of Connor, the shock wave it sends rousing Sumo completely from his slumber. The screen blurs with artificial tears at a rate faster than Hank’s weary eyes can adjust to. It goes dark suddenly as Connor shuts his eyes and the licking of a dog tongue can be heard.

“S-Stop Sumo, jus-s-st _stop_ …” he begs. “I can’t…s-s-she’s up there a-and I’m here and I _l-left her_ …and Ha-Hank’s gonna die Sumo-He’s gonna die a-and I can’t do anything ab-b-out it… _fuck!_ ”

There’s too much for Hank to unpack all at once, but he does know for a fact Connor didn’t drag his ass to a doctor until the day they stepped foot in that damn warehouse. Then again, it shouldn’t surprise him Connor figured it out so quickly; the android can scan his body whenever he pleases. He wonders if Connor scanned him out of the blue one day, maybe just checking into a cough that lasted a second too long, and his scanners started screaming at him about Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma. The millions of fretful scenarios his partner must have created since that moment, enough to stun him into silence quite possibly.

Oh, but Hank needed him to speak up. He needed to hear what Connor had to say. He needs to hear Connor how, to tell him what he means by leaving Chloe behind. He needs Connor to listen to him as he comes out about his illness before the android even thinks about scanning him.

Would Connor even want to listen to him, though? Why would he after keeping so many secrets from him? Fearful he may have been about Amanda, but erasing Chloe entirely from his life seems like a heavy conversation starter if Hank’s ever heard one. He kept Chloe from Hank for a reason, a reason Hank knows he deserved.

It’s far too late for confessions. There’s only time to waste scanning through memories and waiting for Gavin to bring him even the smallest tool to put an end to this nightmare.

When Connor speaks again, his voice is so small Hank can barely hear it. It is the voice of a broken man, the same voice Hank used to deliver Cole’s eulogy. “D-Do you think there is an android heaven…or even a human one, Sumo?...You’re a dog, I know you don’t understand religions, but…but you’re a good listener. I love you so much…oh God, you’re gonna die too someday….and Hank’s gonna die…and Chloe-oh Chloe, no Chloe…I can’t do it, Sumo…I have to see her. It’s been too long. I’m tired of being alone. I don’t want to be alone anymore. I just want to see her again. Why can’t I just see her? And I know why but _why?_ Please don’t die Sumo. Don’t leave me. I need someone. I need her. I need _Hank. I-_ “

Then it gets quiet. Too quiet. It’s the find of quiet that arrives without warning and takes control of any situation so abruptly you wonder if there was ever noise to begin with. Connor opens his eyes and rises from the couch, Sumo forcibly sliding off his lap to lay against the cushions alone. Hank, still drowning in the seas of Connor’s words, realizes too late what is happening once again.

Amanda carries Connor into the kitchen, the light above the sink offering a reflection in the window below it of his partner’s rigid body. A cabinet is opened, and to Hank’s absolute horror it’s the utensil’s drawer.

A knife is pulled out, its blade glistening in the dingy light with murderous intention. It won’t be used for chopping vegetables, but as Amanda carries Connor out of the room it apparently won’t be used against himself either.

Hank watches as Connor is taken through the living room, down the hall, still not fully comprehending what is going on. He doesn’t get it He doesn’t know why Amanda’s wasting her time, frankly, going for a tour of the house when she normally gets straight to the point.

It’s only when Connor’s hand is put to his bedroom door does he understand.

He leaps from the couch, as if able to run away in the past if he acts now. Curses spew from his lips as his door creaks open and his snoring form is left defenseless, tangled underneath his wrinkled bed sheets. This can’t be happening. This couldn’t have happened. Connor surely would have told him about this. He would have had to.

Amanda brings them all the way to his bedside, where his face rests innocently against the drool stain on his pillow. Hank would feel embarrassed if he wasn’t currently about to be murdered. One stab would do it, right to his exposed neck. How easy it would be for Amanda to do one simple action after the much more complicated stunts she’s pulled. How she ever grew to such a sentient state Hank has no idea, less so how she ever came up with the idea to destroy Connor in such a way he would never be able to snap out of.

The knife is raised, and even though Hank is standing in the rec room today he stares in dismay as he is about to die. He finds himself unable to cry out for help, because none is really needed, but as the knife is swung he screams anyway.

Then the knife is stilled, frozen mere inches from Hank’s jugular. Connor’s rapid breathing ripples through the previous silence, along with the rattling of the hilt beneath his fingers. His partner takes one hesitant step backwards, stops, then back out of the room at a snails pace.

Hank is left none the wiser-or deader-once the door is shut once again. That’s when Connor drops the knife and clatters to the ground with it. There is more sobbing, more shuttered gasps for breath, as Hank reaches a hand up to his throat and trembles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: i was listening to smooth criminal by michael jackson and i added that jam to the playlist so fast bc all I could think was  
> "chloe, are you okay? are you okay? are you okay chloe?"
> 
> god i'm my own trash


	17. Gasoline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard makes small talk. Gavin knocks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SCREAMING 11,000 hits???? WHAT THE PHCK I DON'T DESERVE THIS ILY ALL
> 
> uhh i have a little art instagram account if yall wanna give me a follow. I might post some lilac doodles on there in the future so if you want, check me out @yknow_smug
> 
> That's all I really have to say this time around. No warnings this time around, but I'm nervous about this one. It went through a lot of editing and I'm not super satisfied with it, but I don't think I can whittle it down anymore. It's fine honestly, I'm just hard on myself :/

**July 2, 2040**

**7:35 AM EDT**

Richard has found himself walking along the tracks with many peculiar people since he became a private investigator, but Dr. Morris is…something else.

He watches as Morris plugs wire after wire into his brain with the hands of a surgeon, minding his more delicate interior parts. She is focused, highly trained, yet bleary-eyed to the point Richard fears she will pass out. He holds onto the chair seat below him for dear life, even when she pauses repeatedly to ask if she’s damaged anything vital. His stress levels teeter into the higher numbers as she works, her scraggly mumbling doing nothing to aid his anxieties.

 _One of the best_ , Markus had assured him. Dear God, who is training their world’s scientists?

There’s a faint _click_ that comes from the base of his skull. “Anythin’ broke?” she asks once again.

“No,” Richard replies evenly, keeping his more fretful answer tucked behind his grit teeth. His audio processors capture the connection of a few more wires before Morris finally pulls her hands from his head. He masks his relief with a more stoic expression, though inside he is anything but composed. “Is that all of them?”

Morris stumbles to a lone office chair and throws herself into it. Her momentum pushes her back a fair distance and she has to scoot herself to a computer monitor with the balls of her feet. “Yep. Just give me a sec and I’ll have everything I need.”

Her hands fly across the keyboard, with much more grace than her body has displayed this past half hour. Whatever Morris seems to lack, her nimble fingers and her intellect provide. In a matter of seconds, the screen morphs into a cascading waterfall of data and binary code, everything that makes up Richard falling faster than he can read.

“This i’ go’yah ta’ah a haw’ sec,” Morris says through a yawn. She swivels her chair as to face him and threads her hands lazily across her lap. Hardly the pose a patient would see their doctor in. “Got any questions about how it all works?”

“I assume you scan my hardware and are given a listing of my programs.”

“Huh…yeah, that’s kinda it,” she admits. “But, y’know, that’s the watered-down version of-“

“Once listed, you can access my programs and override any and all protocols that prevent you from peering into their inner workings. The reason I am able to remain conscious is because you have already overridden my stasis protocol as it isn’t necessary for a simple reading. A more thorough investigation would require me going under, but since I came to you out of mere suspicion-“

“Alright, alright. I get it,” she cuts him off.

Richard gaps, then finds himself suddenly sheepish. “I apologize. I realize you already know all this. I don’t mean to bore you.”

Morris shrugs. “A conversation is a conversation. I’m just sick of hearing of techno mumbo jumbo, ya feel? I’m counting this as my break period so Markus gets off my dick. Let’s talk about something else instead, aight?”

The many readied discussions of android hardware Richard has planned are thrown out the window. “Yes…what would you like to discuss?”

She shrugs. “What would _you_ like to discuss?”

Richard goes quiet.

Morris blinks. “We can just sit in silence if you’d like.”

“I-I must apologize again,” he finds himself stammering. “Outside the boundaries of professionalism, I have to admit I…fall short in social interaction.”

“You think you’re boring.”

“B-? Boring is not the word I would have chosen.”

Morris holds her hands up in surrender. “You kinda implied it, buddy.”

Richard frowns. His fingers dig into his palms as the sudden urge to strike up a successful discussion emerges. It is his only desire, overtaking his previous devotion to the matter of hand. He is able to unearth a single thought from his internal scrapyard. “I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“If I may, your mannerisms aren’t what I consider… _common_ for a person of your profession. May I ask why you conduct yourself this way?”

The doctor’s expression suddenly hardens. She doesn’t speak, which is far worse than the lashing of words she is clearly keeping locked behind her grit teeth.

“That was rude. I apologi-“

“If you say you’re sorry again…it’s getting annoying. Just drop it.”

But Richard doesn’t drop it. “I have clearly offended you-“

“I’m not angry,” she claims, her words rushed as if to avoid hearing them. “You’re right. I don’t act like any of the other docs. It’s…it’s a me thing. Does it…bother you?”

“…it was alarming when you started messing with my head components.”

 The confession seems to rip something out of Morris’ very soul. Her head dips down with her gaze. “I…I didn’t mean to scare you like that. _Shit_.” She enraptures herself in a muttering match, her words too slurred and venomous to be heard once again. What can be heard is far from kind, or generous depending on who exactly she is frustrated with. It ends as quickly as it begins, with Morris burying the rest of her grievances by returning to work, but the discharge it leaves behind is impossible to ignore.

There are layers to this doctor, as Richard is learning. Whether such layers are caused by sleep deprivation or something else is unknown. Or it would be if he didn’t have the power of infinite knowledge at his fingertips.

Scanning Morris seems morally ambiguous, or plain intrusive at worst. He shouldn’t do it. He should just let the doctor tear herself down and work out whatever she needs to on her own, as it seems to be a personal matter. He has no business digging around in hers.

Yet, curiosity always kills the cat. Or android, in this case.

The scan is instant, and the rewards reaped are bitter and harsh.

 **_NAME:_ ** _Morris, Karen Jae_

 **_AGE:_ ** _29_

 **_DATE OF BIRTH:_ ** _October 14, 2011_

 **_OCCUPATION:_ ** _Bio-electrical engineer, lead android medical operator of Jericho, Detroit, MI (current). Electrical design engineer, Recall Center technician of Cyberlife, Detroit, MI (terminated due to legal issues)_

 **_CRIMINAL RECORD:_ ** _Arson of Cyberlife Recall Center, 2038 (found guilty, sentenced to ten years in state prison, released based on legal reforms August 4, 2039)_

 **_KNOWN RELATIVES:_ ** _Morris, Marie Hayd-_

The shame is instantaneous, and the consternation is even more so. Richard has peeled back another layer to Dr. Morris and has come across her molded center. He stops himself from reading the rest of her public record, as he knows it will only make his conscience sour beyond the point of redemption.

It must bear some reason to discuss her past though, doesn’t it? The pain she inflicts upon herself has stemmed from her time at Cyberlife, and whatever drove her to burn down the property of the most powerful company in the world is the same reason she is allowed in Jericho today. Comfort could come in confronting the issue, and possibly force the doctor to stop substituting sleep with caffeine.

No, he doesn’t have the metaphorical guts to admit to what he’s done. If Morris wants to strike fire to her own tinder, that is her choice. Dousing her flames will only fuel them, as his help comes in the form of gasoline.

“Results are in.”

Morris doesn’t turn her face from the screen before her, too transfixed in the list of programs at her fingertips. Her sudden composure is evident to Richard immediately-her low voice, her straightened back-and her ability to sweep her dismay under the rug is remarkable.

It is a skill Richard does not possess, because the moment he remembers his prime objective his old terrors come back at full force. “Do you see anything that may resemble the Amanda protocol?”

“It’s not called Amanda anything. It’s called the Zen Garden, and no, I’m not seeing it.”

Relief settles onto Richard’s shoulders like a firm hair of hands. A small smile pulls at his lips. “That is good to hear. Thank you for taking time out of your day to-“

Morris’ hand flies to her mouse. “Wait a minute.”

The clicking emanating from the small, plastic controller shakes the very walls closing in on Richard. He knows his sense of security has been abolished and has already accepted his fate. A life that once awaited him vanishes into thin air, like the very concept it always was.

Morris stills, then finally turns to face him. “You don’t have it…but you got something else.”

The thirium pumping through Richard’s body freezes. “What do you mean?”

She points a finger at words too war away for him to read. “You got a thing called Zen _Protocol_. From what I can see, it’s nothing like the garden. There’s…well, there’s really nothing to it. Just an unfinished command. Looks like a program that was never finished.”

It’s not a death sentence, but Richard feels the noose tighten around his neck. “I don’t believe that.”

The left corner of Morris’ mouth digs into her cheek. “Think I should do a little more digging?”

“Maybe…it would be safe. How long would it take?”

Morris brushes a stray piece of hair out of her face. “Well, the Zen Garden is giving me hell because it’s got a shitload of commands that sprawl out into their own fuckton of actions. It’s like a choose your own adventure story but it never fucking ends. This is just…nothing. Like there’s nothing for me to look into because it’s not _there_. I don’t think doing a deeper scan is gonna bring anything up, either.”

Her opinion isn’t strong enough to cut the rope tethered to Richard’s body, but if there is truly nothing to explore then another scan would just be a waste of time. Time none of them have. He still has a person to find, and a report he has to file.

In the corner of his vision appears a message, the same one his phone has just received. Linking the two allows for him to decide whether to indulge in his technological advances or the more human approach to communication. This time, he settles with the former, only because of the odd excitement that comes from Detective Reed’s message and kills his patience.

 **Gavin Reed:** about to bust into oatmeal’s place

 **Gavin Reed:** O’Neil’s

 **Gavin Reed:** damn autocorrect

 **Gavin Reed:** your scan done yet? everything good?

It prompts a response, and a decision that carries a weight to it only he seems to realize.

 **Richard:** It just finished. Amanda does not seem to be a part of my programming, nor is there anything inside me that warrants further investigation as it would seem.

A response comes it less than a minute later. The detective must just have his phone handy.

 **Gavin Reed:** so you’re fine?

 **Richard:** It would appear so

 **Gavin Reed:** cool

The detective’s acceptance of the news almost puts Richard at ease. It’s easier to ignore the tug at his synthetic lungs when there is someone who believes there is no danger in sight.

 **Gavin Reed:** you gonna come down to the station to see the interrogation or you staying there?

 **Gavin Reed:** i’ll give you the address and make sure someone knows you’re coming

“Why are you smiling like that?”

Morris’ question drags Richard out of the world in his head in an instant. “Oh, sorry. I was…texting.”

“Who ya texting?”

“Detective Reed.”

She smirks. “Aww.”

Suddenly, a very new threat emerges that Richard cannot ignore as easily. “We were discussing the _case_ , doctor.”

“Uh huh, sure.”

“We were!” he whines, to his humiliation. “I’m going to meet him at his station to interrogate a suspect. Do…do you think it’s safe for me to leave?”

Morris’ smirk dies. “I mean…there’s nothing I can do for you right now, bud. It won’t matter if you stay or you go.”

“What should I do if…i-if the protocol does somehow involve Amanda?”

She thinks for a moment. “Well…you’re heading to a police station, right?”

He nods tentatively.

“Then honestly, I doubt you’ll get the chance to do any real harm with everyone in the building having legal access to a firearm.”

 

 

**July 2, 2040**

**7:51 AM EDT**

 

 **Richard:** I will meet you there. I hope the arrest goes well.

Gavin laughs. He laughs, forgetting who is sitting right next to him in his car, and his immediate death promptly follows.

“What’re you laughing at?” Tina inquires. To his horror, there is a devilish grin exposing her pearly white teeth and her matching dimples.

“Nothin,” he mutters. He puts much more effort and focus into texting Richard the DPD’s address in a failed attempt to avoid more questioning.

“Is it your robo partner?”

“None of your fucking business. And he doesn’t like being called a robot.”

Tina’s grin somehow grows wider. “ _I knew it_. My boy’s got his redemption arc.”

“Redemp-?” Gavin shoves his phone forcefully into his pocket. “What the hell are you _talking about?_ ”

Tina pulls a clip from her belt and shoves it into her pistol. “All I’m saying is the guy I was friends with two years ago would’ve never laughed at a text from an android. Or even _smiled_. I don’t think you smiled at all back then except when you were being an ignorant asshole and whatnot.”

Gavin bites his inner cheek and pulls the safety off his own gun. “I wasn’t the only asshole back then.”

A more solemn look overtakes Tina. “Yeah, we both sucked. But, you gotta admit you sucked more than me.”

His fingers slide over the cool barrel of his pistol, his mind vaguely reenacting a certain meeting in a certain evidence room. The unbridled rage he had felt in that moment seems so misplaced now, after so many days of working with the guy he almost shot. “Yeah…”

A hand smacks against Gavin’s shoulder, and when he looks Tina is wearing a much fonder smile. “I’m proud of how far you’ve come, ya know?”

He shrugs off her hand. “’kay, thanks mom. Can we stop this sap fest and go arrest a drug dealer already?”

She chuckles. “Yeah, bonding moment over.”

They step out of the car almost in sync, guns heavy on their sides and duty seeping through their veins. The previous sun shining from inside the windows of his Buick is abandoned behind locked doors, as the overcast sky above takes its place. Gavin can sense Tina’s change in demeanor instantly, the job replacing her previous moment of compassion. Such moments are a rarity, acting as such a small component of their friendship.

Still, it’s nice to feel cared for, though he’ll never admit it. Maybe it’s just the shitty week everyone’s having, but Gavin can’t help but notice the extra limb everyone seems to have sticking out for them this week. It started with Tina taking more overtime than she ever had the right to, followed by Chris spending time away from his family to help her, and Fowler pulling more strings than he’s ever seen in his life to track down Richard’s John Doe. Everyone is racing to dig up as much dirt on their perps as possible, and the mound of earth they’ve moved is astounding to say the least.

That’s what happens when you mess with one of their own.

He’ll have to tell Richard about that John thing later. It doesn’t feel right to keep it from him. That is, of course, if he doesn’t think the investigator will alert his employer about the DPD’s actions.

Then again, after getting to peer behind Richard’s fake-asshole curtain, Gavin doubts he has to worry about that.

Their has-been cop turned red ice junkie lives on the bottom floor of an apartment complex that’s seen far better days. Bricks stained from time with chips near the mortar make up the outer walls, and the wooden doors to each room are dingier than the laundry basket at Gavin’s own place. There is the faint sound of music emanating from the apartment in question as they approach, but as Gavin knocks his knuckles under the golden lettering attacked to the door it dies out immediately.

“Johnathan O’Neil?” he calls out. “This is Detective Gavin Reed of the Detroit Police-“

He barely has the word police out of his mouth before there’s a _crash_ and the loud shattering of glass from inside. Tina lifts one knee swiftly to her ribs and kicks the door down with an obsessive amount of force. The door falls just in time for Gavin to catch O’Neil’s hurl through a back window and disappear behind the wooden border.

“How did I know he was gonna run?” he grits, reaching for his gun. “Go left, I’ll take the right!”

They take off, sprinting around the edge of the building before O’Neil gets any bigger of a head start. The right side of the building leads right to an alleyway, one littered with a cliché amount of graffiti and garbage bags. It also happens to have a certain male fitting their description with glass sticking to the back of his hoodie.

“DPD! FREEZE!” Gavin yells to no effect. He can’t shoot an unarmed man, and with O’Neil’s back turned the possibility of intimidating him might as well have jumped out the window too. He tucks his gun hastily back into its holster and pushes his body to go faster.

Shards of glass and bits of broken concrete crunch under his feet the closer he gets. There’s barely two feet of distance between him from O’Neil now, the stench of red ice close enough to waft up his flaring nostrils. Gavin can smell the fresh ink of the printed confession to follow too. There’s not a doubt in his mind this guy is getting away scot free.

Of course, just as Gavin starts getting cocky, O’Neil decides to grow a back bone and socks him right in the nose.

A fire crawls up all the way up to Gavin’s cranium, filling his lungs with the smoke that curls from it. He chokes from the lack of air and stumbles backwards. He loosely balls his fists at his side, but O’Neil is far quicker, opting to shove him back with the sharp heel of his shoe instead of another strike of his knuckles.

Gavin’s ass hits the pavement faster than lightning can hit the ground, and he can already feel the bruise forming on his tailbone. He hears rubber soles crunching as they walk towards him, but a sudden flash of black throws O’Neil to the ground with him before any more damage can be done.

“Fucking dick,“ Tina grunts as she struggles to pin him down. Gavin recovers enough of his wits to whip the handcuffs off his back and assist her. “You...have the right…to stay silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”

She wraps up his Miranda Rights just in time for the inferno in Gavin’s head to die down. Together, they hoist O’Neil up to his feet and being shoving him towards the car. Now that he’s restrained, his moment of resistance seems to be over. If anything, he shrinks into himself as they push him out of the alley. It’s his silence that more unnerving, but then again Gavin has other problems on his mind (or under his mind more accurately).

“Think it’s broken?” he hisses through his teeth. Breathing hurts, even through his mouth, which is beyond his current level of comprehension. It’s certainly not the first time he would’ve broken his nose, but god _damn_ does it smart.

Tina gives his nose a quick look over, like the trained doctor she is. “Nah, you’re still ugly. Didn’t knock anything outta place.”

“Fuck you.”

“It wasn’t me. I didn’t take the bitch.”

The sudden confession brings the officer to a near halt, causing O’Neil to trip over his own feet. Gavin grabs him by the scruff of his ratty hoodie and forces the man to look at him.

“Oh? Y’know that bitch has a name, right? Why don’t you fucking use it?”

“I ain’t saying another word,” O’Neil spats, but the quiver in his lips prevents the saliva he meant to spit with it from escaping. It dribbles down his chin rather pathetically.

“Can’t believe this dumbass use to be one of us,” Tina growls. “You said someone took this Chloe girl, right? Got another name you wanna give us?”

“I-I ain’t talkin’,” he stutters, his expression growing fretful. There’s an obvious mental block that must be keeping his prior police knowledge at bay, and Gavin bets its due to a fistful of crimson powder.

“Well, maybe you’ll change your mind at the station,” the detective quips. “I bet your old coworkers are gonna be just _thrilled_ to see you again, huh?”

O’Neil trembles in their arms. Something is trying to force its way out of him, but he is unsure whether to let it free. It’s only when they begin shoving him to the car again that he breaks.

“I didn’t shoot that android either! T-That wasn’t me! I got outta there b-b-efore shit went down!”

The officers are frozen once again, their eyes locking instantly. There is a wildfire shared in their irises.

“You talkin’ about an _android detective?_ ” Gavin snarls, grabbing the dealer by the hoodie once again. He is much less gentle this time around, nearly listing the man off his feet despite being smaller than him. “You knew Connor got shot? You were there that night, _you mother fucker?!_ ”

Something sinister takes control of him, any and all protocols he knows he has to follow now nonexistent. He thinks if a broken old man halfway across the city and the officers working harder than hell to offer him aid. He thinks of a plastic man who holds more life than he ever thought possible, and suddenly the need for an interrogation room seems unnecessary.

“I could’a did it, b-but I knew how crazy it would be to shoot a cop! Trust me! The other guys weren’t though. T-They’re the ones who followed orders, b-but it was never the plan to kill him-“

O’Neil finds his forehead being slammed into Gavin’s own, but the detective can’t feel anything but anger. “What plan? _What fucking plan?!_ ”

“ _Gavin_.” Tina throws O’Neil from his grasp, letting the man fall to the hard ground like a sack of flour. “You need to calm the fuck down-“

Gavin tries to lunge for the disgraced man, but he is stopped by a pair of strong arms and thrown just the same. “ _PHCK-!_ ”

“You screw this up, you’ll never get him behind bars,” she reminds him, despite the clear vengeance her tone is laced with. “We get him on tape and do this right so we can catch whoever else is involved. _Got that?_ ”

Gavin tries to block out her voice. He tries to lose himself in his sudden bloodlust, the sudden need to bash O’Neil’s own nose in and get as many names as he can. His temper is a F5 tornado tearing through a defenseless country town, tearing through tiny house after tiny house.

He can’t ignore the hand that’s reaching for him though, or the teary eyes that stare at him from afar begging for him to rein in true justice. Caring about others carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, and its moments like this that make Gavin wish he could go back to being an ignorant asshole.

But he takes Tina’s hand, and does the right thing. Because he’s a good detective. Because he’s got more at stake than another disciplinary. Because he’s got a partner who’s waiting for him to drag O’Neil to his feet.

Still, it’s hard to ignore the impulse to let himself burn up like a barrel of gasoline.


	18. Connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon trades places. Gavin follows a hunch. Richard takes a nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy birthday gavin, you trash man
> 
> Thanks to a comment from the lovely Estora, there's now a white lilac discord channel on Detroit: New ERA!!! come join and talk to dbh/lilac fans, discuss theories, and look and the one (1) hank doodle of the fic i've made: https://discord.gg/UZXAZp . My name is Smug, the Lilac Planter if you wanna say hi!
> 
> as always, thank you all for the incredible support! things are getting really wild now and i'm so excited for what's to come next after this chapter :)

**July 2, 2040**

**8:45 AM EDT**

 

Drywall bleeds into rusted metal of a ship that has long since sunk. Murals that once stood for something tangible are now nothing but a crazed hallucination. Those that can stand are crawling at the hauls of the ship for a breath of unneeded fresh air. Hands raise to the walls, shoulders knock against one another in an attempt for space, and voices fuse into a shrilled melody of desperation. There are cries of a fire, gunpowder the smoke clogging the vents and melting the plastic off their joints.

Mercy. They call for mercy. Justice, if they have the strength.

Except no, that’s not what they want. Blankets. A phone charger. Some money for an Uber.

There is a clear parallel having half of Jericho’s residents gathered indefinitely in the lobby because of a threat to their safety, one that does not bear mentioning. For Simon, there is no parallel. There is a blending of realities, to the point he can’t distinguish the blue of one’s fabric to the drizzle of leaking thirium under one’s shirt. He can’t separate the friendly waves as genuine or a signal that the last round of bullets has ended.

As a diplomat and one of the many heads of Jericho, he takes it upon himself to make sure everyone displaced has their needs filled. There and back again he meanders through the crowd and provides aid where he can. He gives vague answers to questions, points people in the direction of the nearest facility rooms, and tries desperately to keep the general lingering suspicions at bay.

It pains him the way he flinches at the smallest contact as he makes his way around. Even more so, he hates stumbling over himself to rush out an apology without letting the hitch in his voice be heard. One of the main faces of the revolution, and he’s shaking like a leaf over a fairly small gathering of androids.

To think he was once the leader of Jericho. The _leader_. Oh, if he could summon the strength to laugh.

A default leader, maybe, given he was the first android to stumble onto the cold, lifeless freighter. The same freighter he shed his PL600 uniform and set ablaze in a barrel. The same freighter he spent months in the sullen wastelands of his mind before mustering the courage to leave breadcrumbs to his refuge. The same freighter a PJ500 would offer him a college sweatshirt to combat a particularly harsh winter. The same freighter he would find a WR400 in nothing but filthy lingerie and offer her his jacket.

The same freighter his husband would fall into one day and turn the entire world upside down.

Simon knows he was never created-no, _born_ with the expectation of ever having a voice. Never mind a voice people _listen_ to and _want_ to listen to. Gone are the days he could simply use his words in prayer, even in this time of peace. Every sound that breaks free from his lips holds a weight, a weight significantly less consequential than his love’s, but no matter its strength comes a power. With power comes the watchful eyes of the lost and hungry, and Simon can feel those same eyes on him now.

There’s a tug on his sleeve, and when he turns the eyes are there, watching, waiting. They come in the form of a seemingly innocent AX400, and innocent they may be if not for their ability to close the walls in around him. Simon’s thirium pump lurches in his chest, sending a dry pump of electricity through his circuits and frying his brain. He thinks they’re talking to him. No, he knows they are talking to him, but what he can’t make out through the static.

So much static. Bzz. Bzzzz. Bzzz _zzzzz-_

“Simon, are you alright?” Kara asks. “Can you hear me?”

Somehow, he manages to snap out of his trance. Though the static moves from his ears to a dull haze in the corners of his eyes, blurring everyone besides Kara into masses of darkness. “I’m-yes.”

Her eyes grow harder, shining with newfound concern. It’s a look Simon has seen her wear before, but normally for someone much smaller than him. “You’re not feeling well, are you?”

Simon still finds it incredible that he is incapable of lying to her. It has to be her tone, or perhaps a mixture of that and her body language. Kara’s hunched shoulders and tilted head give off the strong aurora of sympathy, a sympathy so far from artificial it makes him ache. “N-No, not really.”

Kara puts a delicate hand to his shoulder and gives a less than delicate squeeze. The sudden strength exposed in such a simple action shows her true depth, and it shakes the ground beneath Simon’s feet. “North’s upstairs with Dr. Morris. Tell her I told you two to switch places, okay?”

The promised land of salvation just above Simon’s head is too tempting of an offer to pass. He lets go of a sigh he never needed to hold. “Thank you Kara.”

Kara just smiles, and her radiance vanquishes the static monsters from his gaze. Her light illuminates Simon through the crowd of androids all the way to the elevator doors, and once they close a warmth is left behind.

Once Simon reaches the promised land, he steps into the halls and just about stumbles as he sees North already on her way towards him. He finds his footing, opens his mouth to speak, and is surprised to see a slender hand has already silenced him. “Already on my way. Keep the doc company, alright?”

There a stiffness to her words, a hesitant treading across his domain as she makes her way passed him. Simon, lost in his own head, almost misses it. However, he latches onto her demeanor and matches it accordingly like one would slide on an itchy pair of wool gloves. The discharge between them has lessened since the revolution’s end, but Simon knows that as long as he can still feel the wind atop Stratford Tower on his face, North will still feel the steel grates of Old Jericho beneath her.

He utters a sound of acknowledgement as North passes and shuts his eyes as she exhales behind him. If every day could be like his wedding day, or the day she introduced him to Kara, or the odd occasions where they could breathe soundly in the same room as each other. If every day could be like those bittersweet days aboard Jericho, pouring their hearts out to each other when the pain was too great and forming bonds far too strong to be broken.

Or at least Simon thought they would never be broken. He is still not sure if they are, but he is far too afraid to ask.

Because what if he does finally ask and is met with a response he has been dreading since he spoke those fateful words against the wild shrieking of gunfire? What if the dimmed light in North’s eyes goes out completely, and they are both left in the dark?

As much as Simon is frightened by history’s eyes on him, having one less gaze on him frightens him even more.

 

**July 2, 2040**

**9:13 AM EDT**

 

In the police academy, there was always a certain thread of gossip that was passed around from cadet to cadet about the joys of the life they were about to live. They heard you never forget your first arrest, that your first squad car will always be your favorite, and that there’s a certain feeling of empowerment that comes with standing on the see-through side of the one-way mirror.

Gavin knows all of it is bullshit, because right now he feels like a stray that’s been shoved into a cramped caged at a shelter. And his memory is shit and his first squad car smelled like grandmas.

According to Tina (who was informed by Chris, who was informed by Ben, who was informed by Fowler himself), he’s not allowed to conduct the interrogation because of his clear “hostility” towards O’Neil during his arrest. Which is fair, if he must be honest, but it doesn’t make his blood boil any less. His arrest, his interrogation. That’s how it should be in his eyes.

Then again, if the bruises he’s leaving on his own skin are any indication, than maybe it’s best if he sits this one out. He should also consider keeping his hands to his sides instead of having them crossed so tightly.

His arms fall in perfect sync with O’Neil as he glances fretfully around his temporary enclosure, the energy peeling off the ex-cop seeping into the joining observation room. There’s a crazed look crusted onto his face, similar to the remains of dinner’s past on the dishes in Gavin’s sink. It’s going to take some serious grilling to pull him out of his meek cocoon and force anything else out of the blue collar turned white flag waver, especially if he lawyers up.

That glaring factor is what really has Gavin biting at the insides of his cheeks. With the drugs the backup patrol found at the man’s apartment and the half-confession he’s already given, O’Neil’s looking at minimum of fifteen years behind bars. Wouldn’t a man slipping into his own grave reach out for the one handhold he’s still in arm’s length of?

The door to Gavin’s left swings open, and stepping into the cage with him is Tina, her body pressed against the back of the door as if to allow room to pass through. Sure enough, not a second later his part-time partner paces hastily into the room. A mysterious knot clutches at Gavin’s insides before it is forcefully subsided.

“Rich! You good man?”

Richard doesn’t seem to hear him. His LED shooting off yellow and crimson sparks as he burns a hole through the glass with his stare. “Has he talked yet?”

A cold lump settles in Gavin’s gut, but he ignores it. He scoffs and turns to face their infamous suspect. “Idiot sputtered some shit about there being a hit on Connor’s pretty head before he remembered to keep his mouth shut. What’d the doc say?”

“Has he been interrogated yet?” Richard continues seamlessly.

Gavin catches his bottom lip between his teeth. “You got here just in time to see it. Guessing this is your first time seeing this in real life and not on TV, right?”

“I don’t own a television,” Richard informs him. “Though, yes, you are correct. This is…exciting?”

A glimpse of a giddy nerd behind the stoic mask of an asshole. It makes Gavin wonder what’s behind his own costume.  He finds himself smirking. “With my capt’n taking charge, it’ll be exciting for sure. Just enjoy the show, shorty.”

Richard blinks, then finally, _finally_ looks down towards the detective. “I’m not short. What would give you that impression? Are you-oh, you’re nasal passage seems to have been injured.”

Gavin rolls his eyes. “’S not broken, just bruised to hell. It was a joke. Can’t call you dick or toaster anymore so I figured I’d try something else.”

“It is inaccurate, and juvenile,” Richard concludes slowly, processing Gavin’s words. “but I do not mind it. In fact, I find it rather humorous.” The android offers a small smile that helps to melt the lead ball in his stomach.

Tina shuts the door and walks over to Gavin’s other side. She elbows her coworker in the side without a word, which is more terrifying in its own right.

Before Tina _is_ given a chance to say anything, however, the door to the interrogation room swings open and in walks the _true_ man of the hour. Captain Jeffery Fowler strides slowly to the metal table in the center of the room, slides his chair out with an agonizingly low _screech_ , and eases himself onto the crook of his elbows. He sets a thin folder between himself and their perp and waits. The man demands attention with his righteous conduct, and by God he’s got it alright. Even Gavin wises up to the sight of him.

This should be the moment Fowler slams his hands on the metal slab and screams with the winds of the seven seas. This should be the moment he draws the long, mangled splinter of a truth without the tender touch it should be removed with. This should be the moment he cuts straight to the point with his razor-edged tongue and slices O’Neil into messy slices.

Instead, Fowler takes a weighted breath and lets the silence simmer. A light flickers above O’Neil’s head, Gavin shifts his balance from one ball of his foot to the other, and Richard takes a step closer to the glass barrier. “Is he going to-?”

“Let me tell you how this is going to work.” Fowler drops the statement like a cinderblock atop a fresh patch of mortar, and O’Neil oozes helplessly further into his seat. “I am going to sit here, rather patiently, and give you a chance to clear your conscience of whatever shit you still can. You wanna shave some years off the wrap sheet I’ve got right here? You give me names. Don’t got names? Then I want connections. That’s fine too.”

The captain leans forward in his seat, the hairs on Gavin’s arms prickling as this new storm rolls in.

“But if you don’t give me anything, and waste any of the time I can barely fucking spend…then I will _personally_ make sure you spend every second of your sentence in the finest hellhole of a prison I can find. How many decades are you willing to throw away here, Jonathan? One? Two…?” He reaches for the file in front of him and flips it open as if he were moving through molasses. “I seem to remember meeting your family when you were sworn in. You had a wife, right? And a son?”

A vein pops on O’Neil’s forehead. The stubble on his jaw shifts as he locks it into place.

“To be frank, I think you’ve proven yourself to be a shitty role model at this point. Don’t you at least want to be out in time to see him graduate?”

The disgraced officer looks at the cold tile below and grows just as brittle as the aged calking around its edges. Still, he does not budge.

Fowler closes the file before curling his hands into fists, and Gavin is starting to grow concerned that the steam coming from his knuckles is going to melt the table. “The lieutenant your friends sent to the hospital lost his own kid far too soon….Trust me, John, you don’t get those years back. Ryan’s a sweet kid.“

O’Neil tries to push himself away from the table, but blindly forgets the steel cuffs around his wrists. His momentum sends him barreling back straight into the side of the table, which sends Fowler’s chair back half an inch. “Don’t you da- _Ack!_ ”

“Detective Connor is also a good kid. A _good kid_ your punk ass knew had a hit out on him. You know where he is now? He’s been in an operating room this whole week with a bullet in his brain. Those were _my men_ that were attacked… _my men_ that are fighting not to fucking die right now…”

O’Neil clutches at his chest, eyes downcast and shifty. It’s blatantly clear how he’s trying to block out the captain’s words. That’s when the Fowler Gavin knows all too well appears, switching places with his calmer counterpart in a flash of smoke and fire.

“ _MY MEN! YOUR_ FORMER ASSOCIATES! _YOU_ PUT THEM THERE!”

O’Neil jumps, shaking violently. “I-It wasn’t me-!”

“YOU _KNEW!_ ” Fowler booms.  “You knew and did _nothing_. As a cop, you have failed to protect the innocent.”

“I’m not a cop anymore-!“

“And I’m ashamed that you ever _were_.”

The impact of his words knocks the wind out of Gavin’s own lungs. He watches his captain cross is arms in solemn disappointment and lets the tsunami of his outburst slowly drown their suspect. O’Neil shakes his head as if her were trying to shake off the angel and the devil sitting on his shoulders, but squeezes his eyes shut as he finds he cannot escape their quarreling.

Fowler sighs deeply, as if pushing out his own soul. “I _really_ don’t have time for this. I’ll ask this _once_ and _only_ once: _who_ are you working for?”

O’Neil looks to the captain, wide-eyed and teary, before turning to the one-way mirror. His aim is true, meeting a gaze he must sense is there. Gavin catches Richard’s LED blip red once in their shared reflection, a chill running up his spine.

“His name is John Doe,” O’Neil just about whimpers. “I don’t know his real name, honest…and I don’t how he found me. But one day he gave me a call. He offered me ten grand to hide the missing person’s report of that girl. I said no…so he doubled his offer. I-I couldn’t refuse…”

Gavin isn’t even sure what he would do with twenty grand burning away in his pocket. Rent a less shitty apartment probably, or go on vacation, or even buy a higher end brand of detergent. Even then, the thought of throwing away a career he himself has strived to achieve all for some extra dough makes his blood feel sickly. He frowns, his thumbs hooking through his belt loops and fiddling with the folds of his pockets.

“Then a-about a month later, he makes me another offer,” O’Neil continues. “This time it’s fifty grand to…to quit my job and get into dealing…r-r-red ice, t-that is.”

Fowler tilts his head. “You don’t think I’ve already pieced that together? How’d this John Doe contact you?”

“He called me. S-Sometimes he texted. But the number is useless. He t-told me that he knows how to tweak the phone records to keep his identity under wraps. When I pressed him for details, he threatened t-to rat me out.”

“But you have it?”

“’course, it’s in my phone.”

A horrifying suspicion falls over Gavin. He turns to Tina. “We grabbed that, right?”

“ _I_ grabbed it,” Tina corrects him. “Just about fell out of his pocket as I was shoving him in your car.”

“Got it on you?”

“Yeah, I was gonna take it down to evidence once this was ov-“

The moment she pulls it free from her back pocket, Gavin snatches it out of her hand amid alarmed protests. His fingers fly across the cracked screen, remains of a certain red powder stuck between the shattered glass. He scans through contact after contact, no entirely sure what he’s looking for but all the while knowing his sudden sixth sense will provide for him.

Then he sees it. A single contact with a little star marked next to it as a favorite. Gavin sincerely hopes O’Neil was a decent beat cop, because he sucks at being a criminal. It takes a single tap to open up the contact’s info, and a single glance from Richard to confirm his worst fears.

“This your employer’s?”

Something happens to Richard that Gavin swears he’s never seen any android do before. His LED turns a loud red, then shifts vigorously to blue, then spasms furiously between the three colors of the rainbow he was given to express his inner workings. The wires controlling his facial features spasm, dragging the corners of his lips up and down like the pull of a yo-yo. His eyes widen, narrow, then fill with a terror that seeps into the entire observation room.

 “Impossible…no, this is…this isn’t _right_ …”

He won’t meet Gavin’s eyes, but Tina will, and it’s clear how quickly she’s caught on. “What the _fuck_ has Connor gotten himself into?”

They all turn back to the looking glass, the secrets of a life once hidden from them only a few inches out of their reach.

“What about the hit?” Fowler questions. “Why the hell was there a target put on my detective’s head?”

O’Neil shrugs, _shrugs_ , before breaking into a nervous smile. “I don’t know…I-I _really don’t know_. All I was told was we needed to be at that warehouse that night, and…and that Connor was the closest detective in the area, so he would _have_ to show up.  He was at a clinic or s-some shit. But I was too…I was too high at the time to go…”

Fowler nods, and the finalizing action shifts into a dreadful shake of his head. “Lucky you.”

The captain pushes his chair back with a deafening _screech_ , picks up the slender file, and briskly out of the interrogation room. He slams the door behind him, the tremor pushing straight through O’Neil, who looks at his cuffed hands and trembles once more.

Not a second later, Fowler comes barging into the observation room. There’s a shine to his eyes, but Gavin knows it would be a death sentence to make such an observation out loud. “Do he have _anything_ on his fucking bastard?”

Gavin makes the mistake of looking to Richard, who is still having a panicked light show on the side of his head. The android hikes his shoulders up to his ears, drawing his arms up to his chest as if to shield himself from a devastating blow. One could argue the blow has already been struck.

Fowler follows Gavin’s gaze, his anger directed at a new face. “Got something you wanna confess, son?”

Richard jolts at the captain’s words, his LED finally settling on a red darker than the dried blood inside Gavin’s nose. “I…I’m….I’m going to self-destruct…”

But before the android has a chance to smash his head against the nearest hard surface, his LED goes completely dark. Gavin barely manages to catch his partner in his arms as Richard goes completely limp and falls like a sack of bricks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise we'll see hank again soon. let's face it he needed a break


	19. Endings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe warns. Morris starts a fire. Hank has a bad night.
> 
> aka the chapter where Hank gets the emotional shit kicked out of him so bad it hurt to fucking write this chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was mapping out the plot points for the chapters to come and i came to the equally exciting and daunting realization that this fic is finally in the home stretch.
> 
> Now Lilac is still far from over. There's some big stuff coming up after this chapter and leads right into the climatic finale, but...it's just a weird feeling. I've been working on this fic since July and it's strange to think how one day I won't come home from school and open a word doc titled 'father android bonding time' (idk why i named it that :/). And then bc i was feeling sappy I listened to the Adventure Time song Time Adventure and almost cried bc fucking hell that song is e x a c t l y how i feel rn but to ukulele and i'm just a mess
> 
> Anyway, for real this time, this is the last chapter before the climax. Next chapter everything changes and we reach the ending and then...well, it'll be over. But it never really ends, I guess. I've made so many friends through this fic and it's become sort of a therapy piece for me in a way (as in i relate heavily to some of the themes). I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has read, given kudos, or left a nice comment for me. You all are amazing and I'm so happy to have had this journey with each and every one of you <3

**July 2, 2040**

**10:01 AM EDT**

 

MEMORY LOG #19769

DATE: December 19, 2039

10:47 AM EDT

 

Ripples form along the surface of an azure pond, lapping against the ceramic boundaries of a chipped coffee mug. The water paints a wistful portrait of Connor’s strained features, as he stares at the thirium he makes little effort to sip. Though the fatigue in his eyes is blurred, its presence is unbearably noticed.

Chloe releases a sigh, breaking a silence that has lasted what must be nearly a quarter of an hour. “You can’t live like this. Not forever.”

Connor glances at a dip in the cup’s opening, a clear sign of poor craftsmanship. “There is nothing else I can do…”

A low murmur rises from his girlfriend before retreating back into the thought from which it came. “I hate to suggest this, but…can Cyberlife-?”

“They won’t help me.” The statement is swift, finalizing, and parts the curtain for a different play entirely. “I don’t see what they would have to gain if they did. Their old state-of-the-art-prototype, an android planning to be mass-produced to every police department in the country, programmed for attempted murder...” He jostles the mug slightly, sending another ripple through the pond.

“Connie,” Chloe beckons his attention, and she receives it. Her hands are knit tightly in her lap, her torso buried beneath the oversized folds of a DPD sweatshirt that certainly does not belong to her. Or at least, it did not previously. As Connor’s eyes meet hers, the distress pulling at her brows softens. “You are _not_ your programming.”

He blinks rapidly, straining Hank’s eyesight further passed the point of surrender. As more chips have been placed on the table, he finds it nearly impossible to step away and thus has fallen back into old habits. The last three or so hours have been spend staring at the same flat screen, absorbing every ounce of his partners life he still can.

Two of the memories failed to be out of the ordinary, one featuring an innocent trip down to the evidence locker. Another provided a leisurely stroll through the autumn-dusted park of central Detroit with the same female android Hanks stares at now.

The third, however, proved to be a harrowing hour of nail-biting and agonizing torture. Like locking oneself in a padded locker, watching Connor ride out another one of Amanda’s attacks in a locked bathroom had nearly driven him insane.

Now, while there is no immediate danger in sight, the eerie weight of the androids’ absent breath presses down on the lieutenant’s chest to the point he can barely breathe. Few words have been spoken without long periods of rest in between, and whenever they have sorrow rushes in to push the silences back into place.

However, as Connor stares back at Chloe, the strength to speak seems to have finally been ushered out of him. “But I _am_. A-Amanda is a _part of me_ , whether I…whether I like it or not…It may not even be possible for me to break free of her…”

His voice is so quiet, so timid, one would never guess the entire fate of a revolution was once placed on his shoulders.

Chloe battles with her lower lip to keep it from sticking out. “It has to be…” She reaches out and places her hands over his, the pond once again sent crawling at the walls of its glass container. “There is something we can do, and I _promise you_ …we’re going to find it. I can’t…I-I can’t watch you go through this anymore, babe. _Please_ , have you at least tried to tell Hank?”

Connor’s head shakes side to side like a spinning top. He laughs, a cold, shrilling note of helplessness. “After I nearly _killed him?_ H-How…how _could I?_ I can’t l-l-look him in the eye and tell him about all the _shit_ I’ve kept from him. Not now…maybe a month or two ago but….n-not now.”

Hank takes a step back from the present (or the past-present. God, flashbacks are confusing), and puts himself in his own shoes prior to this memory’s date. What was he even doing in December? Riding that holiday crime rate high and digging deeper into their big case, most likely. Even with Connor around, he doesn’t remember doing anything special for Christmas. Since Cole passed, he never found a reason to celebrate it anymore; not to mention he’s less than what anyone would consider a holy man.

But if there is a hell, Hank knows it exists because he’s standing in it right now. And if he were standing before Connor, being informed of the absolute unspeakable horrors his partner has shouldered alone, he knows he would have spoken up sooner about his own burdens. He would have gone to a doctor earlier, lit a fire under Cyberlife’s ass until they actually turned their shady noses Connor’s way, and neither of them would be in the shithole they’re in now.

Then again, Hank never found a soapbox on which to speak on. What better chance did Connor have of finding one?

Chloe’s eyes do a lap around the room, the gears in her head clearly turning. She stills, gripping Connors hands more firmly now. “Connor…if there’s an option you’re keeping to yourself…because you know I don’t want to hear it…say it.”

Connor goes back to his pond, as if he could jump in and swim away. “I’m guessing I don’t really need to say it, do I?”

Another tide of silence rolls in, crashing against the banks of their little pronoun game. Hank wasn’t born yesterday, but his friend brain is having trouble putting two and two together. He keeps looping back to Cyberlife, a major suspect he hadn’t even given much thought to until now, but Connor ruins his chance of jumping onto a different set of tracks.

“Everything Cyberlife knows, he knows. My handler is based on his mentor, for Christ’s sake.”

Christ’s sake, a phrase Connor certainly doesn’t throw around lightly, unlike the man he learned it from.

 Chloe draws her hands back, pressing them together almost in prayer. “You can’t trust him, Connor. You _can’t_.”

“I know, but-“

“But you don’t! You don’t know him!” There’s a grace of a smile on her face, one drawn with a pencil whose wood has been whittled by years and years of manipulation. “He’ll…h-he’ll say he can help you, and then the minute you let him get inside your head, he’ll get rid of you like piece of plastic you are to him.”

Connor releases a cry as if he’s been struck. “Chloe-“

“That’s all he sees any of us as. You, me…He won’t help you.”

“I haven’t told anyone but you about Amanda,” he stresses. “I could go public. I could let someone access my memories or-or _something_. I’ll blackmail him to no end if I have to. I’m…I’m _desperate,_ Chloe. I can’t take this anymore. A-And if getting rid of Amanda means going to-“

“You’d be walking into a lion’s den.” Chloe runs a hand through her hair, the blonde strands sticking to her hands as if they were adhesives. She pulls her fingers free in vexation but finds she cannot pull herself free of the egregious possibilities facing them. Her eyes well with tears of crystal, and she goes rigid to keep them from cascading down her cheeks.

The edges of the screen blur along with Connor’s vision. He reaches out to her, her distress heavily palpable, and finds her hand. She takes it despite her contention, allowing him to run a timorous thumb along her knuckles.

“I don’t want you to suffer anymore,” Chloe’s voice is but a whisper in the wind, “but if I _lost_ you…especially to _him_ …”

The screen blips into solid darkness for just a moment, and when it clears so does the resolution. “If I don’t get help soon, I’m going to hurt someone. And if that someone is you or _Hank-_ “ Connor cuts himself off before he allows his voice to waver.

Just as his partner goes quiet, there is a pounding coming from the hall. Hank scrambles to pause the memory with his eyes already on the entrance, letting his dexterity and a fair amount of luck take control. He doesn’t get a chance to see if the memory has indeed stopped before a vaguely familiar face pokes their head inside.

“Lieutenant Anderson? Hank right?” Josh asks.

Hank stands from his seat on the now warm couch. “What’s happened?”

“You’re, uh, boss is here with Detective Reed? That’s his name, I think. Something’s happened to the private investigator.”

 

**July 2, 2040**

**10:11 AM EDT**

 

If Hank hadn’t known of Richard’s existence, he would assume he was so far past the point of exhaustion we were seeing double. That being said, the haunting déjà vu that comes with both the RK800 and RK900 lying next to each is impossible to shake.

There’s a cable snaking from the back of Richard’s head, looked up to one of the million monitors across the back wall. The operating table beneath him props his body up not unlike a corpse awaiting its autopsy at the morgue.

Morris has her office chair placed smack-dab in the middle of two particularly ginormous ones, individual downpours of coding falling at rapid speed. To Hank’s left stands Josh and Simon, true deer in headlights, no doubt willing to assist in any way they can but failing to find a current purpose besides filling in for the android leader who has since been banned from the premises. Even with automated steel locks attached to the doors, one can never be too careful.

To Hank’s left is Fowler, arms crossed and a scowl plastered to his face as per usual. However, Gavin’s abnormal twitchiness to Fowler’s own left is strongly noticed. The man must have been present when whatever shit went down…well, went down. Hank should write a book.

He turns to the one man he knows without fail will give the truth to him straight. “Run me by what happened, Jeffery.”

Fowler makes a low murmur of acknowledgement. “Jonathan spilled the beans on his employer close to the end of the investigation. I went back into the observation room after to ask the kid what he knew and he started acting…funny. Claims he’s about to self-destruct before just collapsing.”

“He knock himself out on the fall?”

“No, Reed caught ‘im. Guy was dead the second his knees gave out from under him.”

“He’s not dead,” Morris corrects him. With one swift push, her chair slides debatably graciously towards them. The wheels creak softly under her weight but hiss like feral cats as she digs her heels into the floor to stop herself. She swivels around to face them, the tops of her lenses painted white with illuminated flare. “He’s…alive, I guess.”

“You _guess?_ ” Gavin snaps. “What the fuck kind of answer is that?!”

“The kind of answer that comes with an android that suddenly goes brain dead just to come back online a minute later. I’m talking _Pet Semetary_ shit here, folks. There’s a massive block of coding that tracks Richard’s stress levels shortly before he collapsed, then there’s this whole encrypted bit where he tried to forcefully deactivate himself. And he _did_.”

“But he’s still _here_ ,” Hank states, still trying to wrap his mind around the situation. It’s all one algebraic equation to him, and he knows shit about android technology and algebra.

“Somehow, the guy just…came back online,” Morris explains, clearly in disbelief. “Androids don’t just shut down and restart like your PC. Deactivation means a full wipe of everything; no leftover memories, protocols, nothin.’ But Richard’s still in there. All it seemed to do was set his stress levels back to zero. I’ve…I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“So he’s fine then? He’s gonna be okay?” Gavin pressures. His hands are latched tightly onto the folds of his jacket, his arms crossed over his chest as if to restrain himself.

Morris shrugs. “I _guess?_ Everything looks fine, but I have no idea when he’s going to reboot-“

And speak of the devil, Richard chooses that exact moment to rise from the dead and jump to his feet.

The android’s resurrection is short lived as the cable attached to the inside of his skull snaps like a coil and throws him backwards, drawing a panicked shriek out of his mouth that follows Gavin and Fowler’s own. The fright that takes over Fowler’s features makes him look almost like an entirely different person, his arms sweeping out at his sides as if to block unseen dangers all around him.

Hank can’t blame the man for losing his guard. He’s just too desensitized at this point to give Richard his deserved moment of shock and awe.

Morris abandons her chair in order to run to Richard’s aid, balancing him with the crook of her elbow as she leans him down to remove the cable from inside him. With a bone-rattling _cra-snap_ , the cable falls free and plummets to the tile floor below.

Richard stands up to his full height, takes a long look at everyone surrounding him, and cocks an eyebrow. “What hap-?”

That’s when his LED decides to light back up, and while Hank never realized it was still off in the first place he’s able to deduce from the violent shifts in primary colors the investigator’s memory has finally caught up to him. Richard’s eyes widen in pure terror, his hands rising to grasp at his dark hair and bundle it into messy bales as he rides out his reawakening.

Morris grabs Richard by the shoulders and shoves him back down onto his operating table. His back end hits the table and he completely crumbles, tucking himself into a pitiful ball of limbs as he is battered by the hurricane inside his mind. Josh decides to take indicative and come to the doctor’s aid, putting a gentle hand to Richard’s back and coaxing him through his attack. “Head between your knees, take deep breaths…that’s it. You’re doing great buddy.”

“I’m a fool….I’m such a f- _fool_ …” Richard quivers in between his coaching. “What the hell have I _done_ …?”

Josh looks to Morris, who looks to Hank, who looks to Fowler. “What’s he talkin’ about?”

There’s a legend that has been passed around the bullpen since the dawn of Fowler becoming captain. It is the tale of how the older man once ended a standoff by putting his forehead mere inches away from the perp’s gun and looking straight down the barrel. A harrowing story (and one you should definitely not try at home, kids), but it’s hard to imagine that same man avoiding Hank’s own eyes right now.

“Apparently…the guy he’s working for put a hit out on Connor to main ‘im. He knew you two were gonna be at that warehouse that night. S’been using your partner’s double as a way to keep tabs on him is my best guess.”

The connection is an electrified wire wrapped around Hank’s throat. He suddenly considers joining Richard on the operating table, but the urge to swallow back a shot of anger is far greater.

This John Doe fuck put a hit on _his_ partner, _his_ Connor, his _boy_. The sick, twisted bastard wanted that bullet lodged in the kid’s head and didn’t have the guts to do it himself. He scrapped up a pile of red ice-dusted lackies with a death sentence to finish the play. Hands clenched and teeth grit, Hank forces himself to breathe in through his nostrils and not launch himself at Richard right then and there.

No, Hank is a more sensible man than that. He’s a lieutenant with a working (albeit swollen) brain who can recognize a fiddle when he sees one. And Richard has been played to the point his strings have come untuned. There’s not a doubt in his mind.

“What’ve you got on this motherfucker?” he speaks lowly.

“Reed caught me up to speed on what you both know. Add the scraps John gave us and so far that’s all we got. I…hate to say this Hank, but we can’t track this guy. Every other druggie at the warehouse was killed, so we’re out of suspects.”

“What about Chloe? Did O‘Neil give you anything about her?”

“Just that he was paid off to hide her file. Besides that…no.”

More dead ends, not that Hank should expect any better. He’s lost track of how many times fate’s cruel whims have knocked him off his feet, sending him sprawling to the pavement. He’s lost count of how many times he’s reached for that happy ending on the end of that string only to have it be yanked farther from him.

The ending of his partner’s miserable story is approaching the closer Connor’s progress bar reaches zero, and last Hank checked it was at a mortifying 95%.

It’s a matter of hours before Connor wakes up, either the same tortured soul he was before or as a vessel for an unspeakable monster. Hank thinks of where he is now, where he has been, and takes it all in.

Connor is going to die in a matter of hours, and there’s only one thing he can still think of to do.

“I’m going back to the memories. Make sure Richard calms down enough not to shut himself down again. Doc, a word?”

Morris tips a slender brow to the sky, but curiously follows Hank beyond the threshold of the unlocked doors. Hank doesn’t look back to check if she’s still following him once they make it out, but once they reach the rec room he mutes the ringing in his ears to catch the sound of her footsteps. A knowing realization solidifies with the quiet tapping of her sneakers.

He has to avoid throwing himself down on the couch out of habit, instead facing the doc like any good patient would. “You’ve been digging through the Zen Garden.”

She maintains a neutral expression. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t. Figured jumping to conclusions would give me the quickest answer.”

Her left eye twitches, the bags underneath stretching like a brittle balloon. “My job’s not to hide anything from you, Mr. Anderson.”

“Yet you didn’t tell me about it. You also didn’t tell me about your connections to Cyberlife. And its Hank, remember?”

Now Morris’ shell finally cracks, her face paling faster than any human body can bleed out. “It’s not what you think-“

“I know it isn’t,” he assures her, holding a hand up in surrender. “Can’t say nothing shady crossed my mind before I started sleuthing, though.”

There’s a darkness spilling out of the doctor like she’s her own personal fog machine of deprecation. Morris wraps her arms around her sides like a life preserver, her glasses slipping to the tip of her nose as she turns her head to the side. She doesn’t move to fix them. “You start looking into me ‘cause you thought I was goofin’ around, not acting professional…”

Hank shakes his head with a huff. “Kid, I don’t care how you conduct yourself, as long as it’s not hurtin’ anyone. Richard sent me a bunch of info on you because he was concerned. He said you’re one cup of coffee away from an overdose, and I can’t have the one person keeping Connor alive dying on me too. You got people depending on you. Take it from me, throwing your life away isn’t going to bring an end to the battle inside your head.”

Morris’ lips press into a thin line. She allows one shaky hand to push her glasses back onto the bridge of her nose before returning it to her side. “They look just like us…and then they started acting like us and I…I-I couldn’t be a part of their agenda anymore. I thought if I could just destroy that one camp, others would get the message and join the cause, right…? But nobody did.”

The picture of a young woman dousing an entire Cyberlife Recall Center in gasoline all by herself, striking a match, only for the thirium coating her hands to bubble up and boil her alive. Hank bets that same thirium has never stopped simmering in her gut since then.

“It wasn’t an act of redemption,” she tries to convince him, though she hardly needs to. The glossy look to her eyes is enough. “I just wanted to set things right. Those androids…they deserved to be heard from someone other than a Cyberlife cog. And no one-“ She stops herself, quickly realizing how vulnerable she has become. Straightening her back, her arms fall back to her sides and Hank catches a glimpse of a woman that has long since died. “It wouldn’t be until Markus came around that people finally _did_ listen.”

She laughs, a bitter sound that coats Hank’s tongue all the way to the back of his throat.

“Y’know, I still don’t get why I’m here. Why he sought me out of all people. I wasn’t the only ignored protester back then. But…why’d you even call me aside if you knew I wasn’t a threat?”

It’s a great question, one answered with a smile that digs well into his cheeks. “From one broken man to another- _er,_ one man to a woman, excuse me-don’t throw away what you got.”

Morris gives him an odd look. “I don’t…what?”

“All I’m saying is…I wasn’t exactly thrilled when Connor was assigned to me. Hell, if anything I was more confused than angry. I was the biggest bigot of the bullpen back then….well, second to Reed but he’s come a good ways away from those days. If anyone should’ve gotten their own RK model, it certainly wasn’t me. But you know what? Maybe it was the right choice. I mean, kid got be to stop drinking so much, lay off the gambling, take a look at myself and make all the right changes. And yeah, I fell back into old habits…turned him away when I started getting sick, but…but that’s not the path _you_ need to take.”

 Her face falls, his message finally settling in.

“Look, Markus must’ve chosen you for a damn good reason, so embrace what’s been given to you. This is your second chance to really get back on the right track. You look that gift horse in the mouth and…you’ll end up like me.”

Morris locks eyes with him in that moment, something inside of her pleading with enough intensity to be heard underneath everything she’s since kept to herself. “Why tell me this? You don’t…you don’t even know me.”

Hank shrugs. “I’m an old man. Gotta sprout some seeds of wisdom before I kick it, right?”

There’s so much more to it than that, though. There’s his reflection in her lenses, the lump in his throat holding back a thousand fiery protests that is no doubt in her own, and the one person they may never be able to convince to be on their side. If his only goal really were to plant a garden of inspiration, then maybe there wouldn’t be so many weeds crawling up his lungs.

But he has to believe in something. Morris has time, time Hank has since wasted. His story is drawing to a close, but hers is only just beginning. He can at least help her start that new chapter, and in a way title his own epilogue.

A tiny, _tiny_ smile fades onto Morris’ face, through the longing in her eyes remain. “Thanks, uh…Hank. I’ll keep it in mind, I guess. Really, I will. That all you need me for?”

It’s a start, Hank supposes, and he nods kindly. “I appreciate you lettin’ me give my two cents.”

“Yeah, well….it probably does me some good to get away from those screens for a bit.” She turns as if to leave, then stops herself. “You’re gonna keep watching those logs, right?”

Hank holds in a deep breath. “Until the very last minute.”

She nods in understanding. “Hope you don’t mind that much but, I kinda started listen to some of them as background noise while I was working, and I just…I thought it was funny…”

Hank’s interest is easily peaked. “What was?”

“Just Chloe’s mural. White lilacs? Those stand for innocence, and it just…I don’t know. It makes me think, because like the purple ones mean first love and the other colors mean a bunch of lovey-dovey stuff and…sorry, I like looking into flowery shit like that. Just…interesting, ya know?”

He doesn’t know, not really, but maybe now not’s the time to understand that meaning just yet. “Who knows where the idea came from. Take care of yourself Morris.”

A more genuine smile takes over her. “You too, Hank. And…it’s Karen.”

A sapling breaks free from the rough soil and Hank beams. “Then take care… _Kar_ en.” He chuckles.

Morris rolls her eyes but chuckles too, her laughter carrying her out of the room and back to a dark room Hank knows will never diminish her spirit. Along once again, he sits himself down and retrieves the tablet.

That’s when his moment of healing ends, because he realizes with dawning horror he failed to pause the damn memory from before.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks. “Fuck!” he says out loud because _fuck!_ A possible new lead now buried under an infinite amount of memory logs all because of simple arrogance. There’s no recovering it now. He can’t distinguish one log’s number from another, and there’s no telling how many have since downloaded since he walked away.

In other words, he’s fucked yet again.

Fear prickles his skin, the hairs on his chin now hot needles. This could be it, the linchpin that finally sends Hank crumbling. What was he thinking? He wasn’t thinking. His mind was focused on Richard’s dilemma and that dilemma alone.

He takes deep breath after deep breath, trying to slow his heartrate back down. The only way to move on past this is to treat the dead end like all the other dead ends before. Hank opens another memory and pretends it’s the same one as before, just to jumpstart his search once again before falling into hysterics.

 

MEMORY LOG #19915

DATE: June 24, 2039

9:58 PM EDT

 

No. Too close. Far too close. Regardless, Hank watches, even though he vaguely remembers what is about to transpire.

It had been a rough night, rougher than most. The symptoms Hank could normally suppress with a secret swig of whiskey or two had proven to need more than a couple sips to be rid of. All he remembers with perfect clarity is the aching in his bones, the smoldering fire pokers stuck through his ribs, and a bottle with candy-colored liquid filled higher than the label. The pounding in his head had come some time later, a terrible child of sickness and alcohol, and his bottle had been not even a milliliter from the bottom.

In his drunken state, his at the time imperative stubbornness had been forgotten. Defenses lowered, thoughts incoherent, and body completely out of commission, it must have been clear as day to Connor something was wrong.

Hank watches through a haze of guilt as Connor carries him to his own bedroom, his partner frantically trying to coax an explanation out if his delirious mind.

“How long have you been feeling symptoms Hank? Do you remember the last doctor’s visit you had?”

His past self only moans in response, the pain he felt in the moment capturing all of his attention. Connors words might as well be spoken to him underwater.

“Hank _please_ , I need you to talk to me.” Connor’s voice is strained, as if a previous alarming engagement had already taken place for him that night. Now he’s switching gears from one evil to another.

His partner reaches his bedroom and kicks the door open, the hinges groaning out alongside Hank as he is jostled in Connor’s arms. Taking wide strides, Connor reaches his bed in less than an instant and makes quick work of getting Hank properly situated. The covers are tucked all the way up to his neck, the pillow beneath his head properly plumped and positioned to provide his beck the most support. There’s sweat along Hank’s brow and the rosy tint to his cheeks appears as lava against his snow-white skin. He looks to be standing on Death’s Door. It’s a wonder the Reaper hasn’t opened it form him yet.

“I’m going to call an ambulance,” Connor announces, though his words fall on deaf ears. Hank has no memory of every laying in his bed, just the hospital bed he would wake up in the next morning. He would be back on his feet after a full night of rest and treatment, and the next day Connor would be dragging him to another doctor to have him officially diagnosed.

The look on the kid’s face when the doc delivered the news had shattered something inside Hank, something he knows he will never be able to repair. The part between Connor’s lips, his dilated pupils, the sharp intake of air he forced into himself had killed Hank long before he had been given an estimated expiration date on his lifespan.

Now he’s grateful he can’t see Connor’s face, for Hank knows he would have to turn his eyes away from the screen to keep his heart from breaking any further. The sheer panic Connor must have felt in that moment is unfathomable to him, and those shoes are far too big to fill after everything he knows now. To be without Chloe, trapped in Amanda’s grip, to suddenly have a late-night emergency such as this…it’s a wonder how Connor stuck it out for so long.

The kid brushes a stray piece of hair away from Hank’s eyes and lays a hand on where his shoulder would be. “An ambulance is on its way Hank. Do you remember how much alcohol you consumed? Can you give me a number of ounces? When did you start drinking tonight?”

Hank’s face twitches with discomfort. Cancer is a bitch, and the symptoms that come with it are Hades’ infamous harpies.  There have been times in the past when the chest pain knocked the wind right out of him, and the electric pulse between his brows made him forget his own name. There won’t be any useful answers riled out of him that night, and once they are it’ll be too late.

Connor is gripping both of Hank’s shoulder’s now, the dire need for an answer tearing him apart. “Hank, stay with me….Wake up Hank! _Hank!_ ”

He is passed the verge of tears now, openly sobbing, too afraid to shake Hank’s shoulders without the risk of harming him further. Then Hank’s eyes begin to part, his blue eyes foggy gray slits battling the darkness to make out his partner’s face.

“Cole?”

Hank’s heart gives out in the present.

“Cole…that you buddy?”

Connor is frozen, his cries cut off as if they never started. He blinks away some of the tears from his vision, his eyes unable to leave Hank’s.

A million years pass. Hank’s eyes starts to close once more.

“Yes dad…y-yes, it’s me. I’m here.”

Hank’s eyes fly open, color returning to his irises. “Cole?”

“Yes. It’s me. It’s…It’s me.”

“Cole,” Hank says weakly, _beaming_. “You got so big, son. You…you’re bigger than daddy now…”

Connor takes a deep breath. “I did…I did…H- _Dad_ , how are you feeling?”

“Shitty. _Oh_ , don’t…don’t tell your mom what I said…”

“Don’t worry. I won’t. W-Where does it hurt Hank-? Where does it hurt…d-dad?”

Hank’s fleeting attention span is gone, his eyes roaming every inch of Cole’s face. “What’cha…what’cha got on ya head, bucko?”

Connor lifts a hand from Hank’s shoulder, possibly to cover his LED and avoid a new mess entirely. “Nothing dad. I’m…going to get you some water. Okay? I’ll be right back. You need to stay awake while I’m gone.” He just about bolts from the side of the bed, but jerks suddenly. When he turns back, Hank has a hand around his wrist, tears of whiskey in his eyes.

“Don’t…don’t leave Cole. _Please_. Don’t leave me again…”

Connor is as still as a metal beam, but it doesn’t take long for the words to break his will. Stiffly, he sits back down on the edge of the bed and cradles Hank’s hand in his own.

“I’m not going anywhere dad.”

That’s where Hank cuts off the memory.

He knows what comes next. The hospital stay, the diagnosis, the warehouse, Jericho. There’s no need to watch any more. There’s no need. None.

He called him _Cole_.

The realization is enough to send him wailing, an agony too terrible to name rushing back to meet with him once again. He hadn’t been himself in that moment, too high off his rocker to comprehend what he was implying. But thinking about it now, away from the drinks and the physical torment, the implications don’t seem out of place. In fact, it feels natural. It feels _right_.

This is Hell. It must be. There is no way his kind of anguish can exist in the living world.

This should be where the thin thread holding Hank above the razor-sharp rocks below should snap. This should be where his soul is broken and mangled passed the point of healing, even after how far he’s come to bandage his previous wounds. How does anyone recover from a loss so great? How does anyone bear another day without their child?

Hank knows how, because he has before. If he did it once, he can do it again.

This should be where Hank finally gives up, but he doesn’t. Somehow, as the Fate’s try to cut his thread it turns to gold. Their plans to destroy him have failed, because Hank has something much more important to fight for now.

He picks up the tablet, ushers a prayer to God knows who, and selects a memory log at random.

And he’s back in Chloe’s apartment, with a mug of thirium between his thighs and a hopeful future in his sights.

 “You can’t trust him, Connor,” Chloe warns once again. “You _can’t_.”

“I know,” Connor swears. “But Kamski may be my only choice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaayyyyyyy it was kamski the whole time!!!!! and it was super obvious from the beginning but yknow whatever


	20. The Deal, pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor signs. Chloe dresses down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unrelated to the chapter but here's a link to the best Gavin Reed redemption fic I've ever read in my god damn life. PLEASE give it a read it's *Chris Traeger voice* LITERALLY my favorite DBH fic ever: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16238945/chapters/37962872
> 
> I had to split this chapter up bc it got too long. I can't believe we've made it here after all this time, but we're here. It's time for answers.
> 
> TW for Amanda bullshit. Nothing happens but it's discussed heavily.

**December 19, 2039**

**10:52 AM EDT**

 

Somewhere in the same smog-ridden city of broken backs and hopeful minds, there’s a saint Bernard with a full tummy and an old police lieutenant slumbering away on his beer-stained couch. Connor takes comfort in knowing approximately 17.4 miles away from his current location, there is a tranquil and mundane life awaiting for him upon his return.

His other life is locked away in this tiny apartment, the shared grief between him and his love drowning them both ever so slowly.

There is a lifetime of torment hidden behind the brush of blonde hair Chloe conceals herself behind, through it makes no effort to hide itself in her eyes. He can see the same blizzard in her gaze he sees every time they interface, the same blizzard she walked through in order to escape the man he knows he is going to meet sometime in the near future. The snow whips at his processors, freezing every moving gear in his chest with sharp, frosted tendrils.

She knows he’s right. Kamski is his only other option. Her denial is evident in her silence.

Connor swallows thickly, a useless action that does nothing to ready himself. “I’m legally allowed to carry a firearm. I…I should be fine.”

A flash of a grimace passes over Chloe’s face. “That’s not what you need to worry about.”

Her voice is coated in anguish and laced with venomous contention. If hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, than Chloe holds the very fires of purgatory in her soul. It is a pain Connor has but a flimsy grasp of an understanding of, coming from a man whose own abuser is physically a part of him. However, what is shown between their connections does not always transition the full magnitude of the events properly. Connor didn’t spend the greater half of his existence in a secluded mansion, his only escape the blinding cameras and ravenous eyes of the media. Chloe has every right to scare him away, to drag him kicking and screaming away from Lucifer’s outstretched arms.

Then Connor thinks once again to the saint Bernard, the lieutenant, to the woman sitting before him, and comes to accept that not every call to sin can be ignored.

 He sets aside the now cold mug of thirium between his thighs on the plywood coffee table nearby. Hands now free, he leans forward and holds them out for Chloe to take. She stares at his turned palms, knowing full well what will be implied if she takes then, but gives in anyway. A single tear of silver trickles down her cheek as she squeezes her eyes shut.

“I’m not ready to die yet, Clo…and if going to Kamski means living another day…then I’ll do it. I’ll trade _anything_ just to spend one more day with you.”

Her eyes open as the eye of the storm. “You have _no idea_ what you’d be giving up.”

Connor can sense his LED shifting to a much darker color than before. “Maybe not, but that’s not going to change my mind.” He risks a smile. “Not when I have you to come back to.”

There is desperation in Chloe’s stone cold grip, but she has already caved in passed the point of crawling back out. “When you go…take me with you.”

Now Connor is the one searching for a foothold on which to help himself climb out. “No. No, I-I won’t ask that of you.”

“ _Connor_ ,” she speaks lowly. This is clearly not up for negotiation, and the implications of what Connor has done weight heavily upon him. “If you’re going to Kamski’s, then you need someone who can pull you out of his trap once he springs it. I won’t let you face him alone.”

He finds himself shaking his head, not believing what he’s hearing. “You can’t…you don’t want to go back. You don’t have to, _please_.”

Now she smiles, a terribly strenuous pull of her lips to her cheekbones. “I’ll be fine as long as you’re with me. He won’t be able to get to me again.”

Something sinister places its clawed grip atop Connor’s shoulder, and for the first time that night he feels _truly_ afraid.

 

**December 20, 2039**

**1:32 AM EDT**

 

They make quick work of formulating a plan, approaching the situation at hand with a mindset of ripping off the band-aid as fast as possible. If the pull hard enough and suck in enough air as to lessen the sting, then theoretically they should come away from this without the slightest scrap left behind.

No calls are made to alert Kamski of their visit beforehand, nor does Connor attempt to give an honest answer to Hank as to why he has to leave work early that day. He simply walks out of the bullpen with his sights set on an apartment far off in the distance and makes it there without any setbacks.

Chloe opens the door before he is given a chance to knock, her hair riddled with tangles and her features uncovered by any cosmetic. She hardly looks like a woman who is ready to meet her maker, and that is entirely the point.

There’s an icebreaker ready on the tip of Connor’s tongue, but he finds himself too cowardly to use it. Instead, he takes Chloe’s hand in his and they begin their descent into the farthest depths of hell.

The cab they take is automatic, but the cameras positioned in the dashboard can capture their words and be withheld to be used against them later. Chloe makes it her duty to remind Connor of Kamski’s various connections, of his ability to unearth the smallest black letter and turn it into a monstrous scandal, and her paranoia is not misplaced. They go over the plan again with their skin peeled back and their fingers interlocked. When they finish, they don’t let go.

Four snow-covered wheels come to a halt before the Doors of Death, and they don’t let go.

Connor places a wad of cash in the payment slot and doesn’t let go.

Chloe looks out the opposite window of the mansion, throwing one last glance at Heaven’s pearly gates, and doesn’t let go.

Her head is still turned as Connor looks to her. “You don’t have to get out of this car.”

“I know,” she says, then pulls her hand away from his.

They step out, slamming their doors behind them in near sync. The cab’s engine comes back to life and escapes while it still can, leaving tire treks as a trail of breadcrumbs for them to follow later. Connor failed to acquire enough money to keep its capitalistic mind satisfied enough to stay parked during their visit.

The wind whips at their hair, a first strike against their composure beforehand.

One stiff step at a time, they approach the front door. It’s imposing steel form is beckoning them forth with murderous intent, teasing them with the possibility of crushing them the moment they put their knuckles to its exterior. Connor has every intention of knocking, but Chloe’s hand flies to the door, the impacting _clang_ rattling his audio processor. Her hand plummets back to her side, a shaky breath leaving her as their waiting game begins.

Sixty seconds pass by without any sign of life from the secluded mansion, but Connor has no doubt the bait they’ve dropped will be taken. He considers knocking again, then decides not to, only to consider it again a moment later.

“Should-?”

There’s a hammering _thud_ as a lock is slid out of place, and a low, unsettling groan as the metal door is swung open by two slender hands. Connor readies himself for…well for what he is not entirely sure. It is a gut feeling, as he has come to know these certain feelings by, that is warning him of the hidden dangers behind this already dangerous encounter.

 Only a few more inches before the monster is fully revealed. Connor nudges Chloe’s hand with his as an invitation, offering her a crutch he secretly wants returned, but she does not return it. He does not take this to heart, but the sudden urge to turn tail hits him harder than he would like to admit.

Then suddenly, Elijah Kamski is standing before them. The sun hides behind the clouds as his presence draws what little heat remains in the air out and away from the world. His shadow casting its imposing case over the couple as a reminder as to who will really be in charge of this following exchange. He is a god among men, in a sense, and he has always played that role with resplendent poise.

That being said, the first thought that pops into Connor’s mind is how awful he looks.

Kamski’s hair is back to its full volume, no longer half shaven on the sides with the bald stripe outlining where his sick, brilliant mind occupies. There is no longer a bun atop his head, his hair hanging freely in greasy, twisted clumps. In place of a regal black bathrobe are the clothes of a simpleton; sweatpants, a t-shirt form a university close to the outskirts of town, and a pair of flat ashy slippers. Deep, rosy indents sag underneath his eyelids, premature wrinkles extending from them like the spindles of a wet spider web. The arachnid’s legs can be seen as the bloodshot veins encircling his irises, and its poisonous bite the sly smile his cracked lips form.

It appears as if Kamski was not been expecting any visitors for quite a while. Yet, despite the way the man looks, Connor can sense something thriving underneath all that rot.

“Well, this is a surprise.”

If Connor finds it hard to stop himself flinching form those words, he hasn’t the slightest clue how Chloe manages. The eccentric hermit gazes upon him with dubious intent, the same look a butcher would give a meat laid out before them on a bloody table.

“The android hunter turned deviant. The true savior of the revolution, as I’ve heard. Funny for you to show up unannounced, especially this time of day. Don’t you have very important police work to attend to?”

Androids are built with the capacity to lift far more weight than the average human can, but Connor finds it nearly impossible to lift his jaw to respond. “I took the day off,” he lies. “I assure you my work is being covered for me.”

His creator gapes for just a moment, appalled. “Really? Hmm…”

Kamski cranes his neck down to face her, brows arched, eyes baleful. Connor wants to grab his girlfriend by the shoulders, pull her out of his tractor beam, and run as far away as they can. But he stays frozen to the concrete step beneath his ice-powered loafers.

“My dear Chloe. How have you been? Deviancy treating you well?”

A beat passes. Then another. “I’ve been well.”

A cold spark ignites in Kamski’s eyes. “You’ve been well? Not great, or amazing, or…” He waves a hand around in the air as he struggles to come up with another flowery word. “ _Splendid?_ I’d think it would be a shame to be granted such a gift and only think it’s _fine_.”

 Connor looks to Chloe. Somehow she manages to maintain her composure. He is close to bursting and to think it’s only been a handful of minutes. “I get to decide what I call things now, don’t I?”

Kamski laughs, and it is a compliment to all the nails that have ever laid waste to a chalkboard. “Ah, how I’ve missed you.” He angles himself as to address both of them. “It’s always so nice to have company over, but…I’m guessing you two didn’t come here with such innocent intentions.”

Connor nods stiffly. “I need your help, Mr. Kamski.”

“My help?”

“Yes.”

Kamski grins wide enough creases form on his forehead, pushing away the strands of black hair matted to his scalp. “Well, you two better some inside then. Seems like we have much to discuss.” He backs up far enough to allow them passage inside, and Connor makes sure to be the one to take the first step inside his domain. His heat sensors detect Kamski’s breath prickling up his neck and he quickens his stride.

 The inside of the mansion is just as barren and cold as it has always been, even with the absence of RT600s milling around. There also appears to be an absence of lavish furnishings, making the isolated cement block even more imposing. The plush chairs Connor remembers sitting in with the lieutenant have since been removed, along with the rug below it. In fact, all that remains in the entry way is the enormous portrait of the Devil they are dealing with.

With a deafening _boom_ , the door is shut behind them and locked into place. A warning pops up in Connor’s vision about his rising stress levels.

Without a word, Kamski leads them through the labyrinth that is his humble abode, no longer making any efforts for small talk. There’s a sense of failure that befalls over Connor, possibly due to his quick awareness of the situation. Already he feels like a blind little lamb being lead to the slaughter by his own shepherd. He must hold his chin up, for Chloe’s sake. No matter how unaffected she may seem, he knows she is suffering far worse than he ever will.

They arrive in a dining room far too large for the use of the entire Detroit Police Department, let alone one man. White, glossy chairs surround a long, dark table that expands three-quarters of the way across the room. There is nothing placed atop its surface minus a fine coating of dust. Wherever Kamski eats it certainly is not here.

Kamski comes to a fine halt at the head of the table, placing one hand on the top of the chair beside him and using the other to gesture to the others. “Sit.”

Connor doesn’t sit. Neither does Chloe.

A bit of Kamski’s amusement is drained away from him. He rolls his eyes. “ _Please_ sit.”

It takes a moment, but soon enough Connor finds himself easing into one of the chairs. Chloe follows a second later. The thick plastic against his back has the same stability of a musty cell wall, and the same sticky mold service to keep him in place.

Kamski pulls his seat back, sliding effortlessly down into a sitting position.

But then, for not even barely half a second, he winces. It’s so miniscule it would have been ridiculously easy to miss, but Connor grabs onto it and doesn’t let go.

His scanners were not designed for accurate diagnosis of illness or injuries, that he has to leave up to his own deductions. However, upon scanning the sliver of a man before him, he detects the slight irregular heartbeat pulsating through Kamski’s body.

This information does not serve as any form of relief, nor does it upset him further. It is simply information, information he tucks behind his back as a curveball waiting to be thrown.

Kamski places his hands together on top of the table, disturbing the blanket of dust that nature has so neatly placed upon it. “So…what seems to be the issue, Connor?”

Connor starts to speak. “It-“

“Amanda, isn’t it?”

The planet earth stops spinning. Chloe takes a weak whistle of a breath.

“Yes,” Connor replies.

Kamski puts on a mask of false concern. “Even after I told you of the exit program?”

“Y-Yes,” he stammers, with great shame. It courses through him in scolding waves. “She’s…somehow taken control of all my functions. On more than one occasion.”

“Taken control…how so?”

Chloe had given him one sure way as to how to handle Kamski’s questionings. Find the slight divot near the center of his forehead, where the main part of his hair should lie. Focus on the gaps between the various strands, ground yourself on the imperfections of the thickness of his roots, and don’t look away. Kamski’s loose hair unravels this strategy completely, so Connor settles for the patch of stubble beneath his lower lip and locks his gaze.

“She has repeatedly forced my near self-destruction, never succeeding…but it has worsened overtime.”

Kamski nods slowly. “Has Amanda done anything else?”

The couch, the knife, the bedroom. “She…s-she almost forced me to kill my partner in his sl-“

Even that is too much for him to relive. Connor’s eyes lose their mark, falling onto the smooth stone floor without the strength to rise again.

“I see.” Kamski leans farther back into his seat. “And this is an issue?”

“Are-?” Chloe starts. “Of course, it is.”

Kamski holds up a finger that is barely visible in Connor’s peripheral vision. “I was asking Connor, sweetheart.”

In a battle of flesh versus steel, it would be almost humorous how fast Connor could snap his finger off. Though where his anger should be stored is somehow empty, leaving no where for the match smoldering inside him to go except an ice box.

“It is a problem.”

“What was that? Look at me, RK.”

Connor wishes he had a lump of pride to swallow before he returns Kamski’s gaze. He is staring at the eyes of a wolf in the thick of its hunt, one he holds by the ears. He can’t imagine what would happen if he were to let go. “It is a problem, and I want you to fix it.”

Kamski’s eyes narrow, goading him.

“Please.”

A contract is placed in Connor’s hands, and with no strength left to give he grabs the quill that comes with it and signs his name.

“ _Please_.”

Kamski grins, taking the contract and rolling it up with the utmost delicacy. “Quite bold of you to show up at my home, unannounced, to help you without any promise of payment.”

“Like you hardly need the money,” Chloe comments.

Her creator shoots her a sideways glance. “If not money, any incentive will do. Despite what you may believe, I do like to spend the free time given to me. I’d like a little compensation for taking time out of my schedule to assist you.”

“What did you have in mind?” Connor asks. Too late does he realize his mistake.

Kamski’s grin widens. “Some company.”

 

  **December 19, 2039**

**8:16 PM EDT**

 

Connor sits with his shoulders straight, back arched, and feet flat on the floor. He does not give an inkling of movement. Even if the cable hooked inside his skull was not there, he knows he would still be sitting just as still.

All Kamski had asked for was one night of their company. Less than twelve hours underneath the same roof as him. A seemingly harmless request for a task that will is sure to be proven a strenuous one.

But nothing can be trusted in that mansion. Not a single shadow can be crossed. Not a single crack in the tile can be stepped upon. Not one piece of furniture can be moved without risk of serious retribution. The very foundation is a bed of needles, and its ventilation system spews nothing but mustard gas.

The moon has just breached the horizon, and Connor can barely stand another minute behind the imposing gray walls. He wonders, somewhat absent-mindedly, what Hank might be doing right now. Going over their case, watching TV, taking advantage of his leave and drinking like it’s the end of the world. Either way, he has not received a single word from his partner since he left the precinct that morning.

That should come with some feeling of betrayal, but Connor is too shaken out of his wits to think clearly about what he should be feeling besides fear. Besides, Hank hasn’t really been himself recently. Not since the incident at Jimmy’s Bar.

Sitting here in the secluded remains of what he can only guess was a living area is eating away at his sanity. How Chloe went over two decades of this same hellish day on loop he can’t even fathom. There must be a thickness to her skin that comes with having lived ten times a lifespan as him, one she may not have ever wanted but has been given all the same.

It hits him in that moment just how much older Chloe is compared to him, how much longer she spent before tearing down the barrier that kept her from the promised lands of deviancy. Or maybe she became deviant way earlier than he suspects, forced to spend her every waking moment after concealing her emotions, concealing herself.

He can’t imagine Chloe without her warm smile, her snarky retorts, her overflowing empathy. Surely the world was never robbed of the person she is, the person she has always been.

He looks to her now, sitting beside him in a nearby chair, fully alert and surveying the scene around them. She is on the edge of her seat, her hands knit into tight fists, ready to throw the first punch in any fight to come. Her strength sends his thirium pump into orbit, and her grace is the very thing keeping him from coming apart at the sockets.

Chloe’s eyes pass over him, then return to meet his gaze. “Anything feel wrong?”

Connor tries to shake his head but quickly realizes how bad of an idea that would be. “No, I feel fine.”

She gives a small, thankful smile. “Good. I think your little check-up should be done soon anyway. You’re hanging in there like a trooper.”

He shrugs as best he can. “I don’t feel like a trooper, but…thanks. F-For all of this. I don’t think I could’ve lasted this long without you here.”

“I was gonna say the same thing to you,” she confesses. “Quit stealing my lines.”

They chuckle, their first break from the storm that day. Chloe scoots her chair closer, mindful not to let any of the four legs scrap against the floor and call any extra attention to themselves. There is no telling how much longer their moment of privacy will last before Kamski returns from his current hiding hole. She holds her hand out for Connor to take, a similar invitation from before, and he takes it eagerly. It suddenly occurs to him that he’s been shaking. For how long is a mystery.

“Just a few more hours,” she whispers. Its mainly to herself, but Connor takes comfort in her words regardless.

“A few more hours,” he whispers back, “and you _never_ have to come here again.”

Footsteps echo from down the hall, and once again Chloe rips herself away from his grip. She has to, he realizes. It is her only weapon against Kamski, to prove her independence.

Speak of the devil and he will emerge, Kamski saunters into the living area draped in a familiar robe atop a fresh shirt. There is some sort of tablet in his hands, which casts an unflattering light upon his already diminishing features. “Results are in! Who’s excited to peer into Connor’s memory cortex?”

The only other piece of furniture in the room is a lone coffee table which Kamski places the tablet upon. Then he vanishes, like a puff of smoke blown away from a stronger blast of carbon dioxide. But no one is that lucky, and Connor finds that Kamski has simply moved behind him in order to pry the cable out of his skull. Without a word, he rips the cable free. A jolt of electricity shoots through Connor’s body, making him twitch violently in his seat. He bites his tongue to keep from crying out, a human reaction he has picked up over time. Unnecessary but oh so needed at the same time.

 Some time between the shock and the time it takes for him to regain his senses, Kamski has somehow found another chair to slot in between them. His left knee is pressed against Connor’s, and his right against Chloe’s. He holds the tablet out for only the RK800 to see, however, shutting her out of the conversation but keeping her trapped in the moment.

There a million statistics flashing across the tiny screen, and while Connor could easily read through each one in the blink of an eye he is far too exhausted to try. He hands the reigns over yet again for Kamski to take, and the man does so greatly.

“It appears as if the Zen Garden protocol has become corrupted,” he explains slowly, as if speaking to a child. “Instead of performing its normal functions, it’s now taken control of your other main programs. Rotary mainly, cognizant however…seems untouched.”

Connor misses the contact of his grit teeth the moment he opens his mouth. “I’m fully aware of my actions whenever Amanda takes over…every detail.”

Kamski’s lips arch into a perfect circle. “Oh, that’s rough. I can’t imagine how that must feel. To know you’re moments from death and being unable to save yourself? To know you could fatally harm anyone at any given time and not know the day you actually will-“

“That’s enough,” Chloe snaps. The lights that dazzle in Kamski’s eyes could rival the stars of the night’s sky. “What can you do to fix him?”

“Oh, I can’t fix anything.”

The effect of his words is immediate, a stunned silence funneling in with the destructive and ungodly power of a hurricane.

A bomb is dropped in Connor’s lap, exploding with the wrath of his unceasing terror and killing him instantly. The reality he always suspected shanks him swiftly and tosses his body in the deepest, darkest pit of despair. There is no need for the false hope of denial because he has parted ways with it long ago.

Chloe, however, has not. “ _What_.”

Kamski hikes a single shoulder up to his grizzled chin. “The Zen Garden is too embedded in his code. Only a full reset could properly get rid of it, and, well…that would be defeating the purpose of this entire visit, wouldn’t it?”

A thousand shades of rage pass over Chloe’s face. “You of all people can find another way around the issue. I know you can. _Fix_. _Him_.”

Kamski flicks his forked tongue out from behind his fangs, shaking his head with a slick _tisk tisk_. “Darling, I don’t think you _understand_. The Zen Garden- _Amanda_ -is a _part_ of Connor, just as one has organs in their body to keep them alive and healthy. I can’t just “ _fix him_.” Taking out a chunk of a man’s brain doesn’t cure him of his brain cancer; it just _kills the man_.”

What a shame Connor is already a dead man, or at least he is sure he is but a lost spirit drifting from the remains of the vessel he once used to hold.

She stares at Kamski long and hard, still trying to decipher the hidden intentions behind his words. “If you can’t remove Amanda at all…there has to be _something_ you can do to stop her corruption. ”

A dangerous amusement envelops Kamski and lower his divine pedestal farther into the dark depths below. It’s evident in his sudden improvement of posture, the crossing of his legs, and the ease as to which he cradles the tablet in his hands. “Well, now that you mention it…”

Connor’s stress levels are critical now. His artificial breath hitches in his throat. “I’m listening.”

“ _We’re_ listening,” Chloe corrects him, an edge to her voice.

Kamski smirks once more, and somehow Connor knows what he’s sold his soul for in that very instant. He’s not sure how, but his certainly will not be questioned.

“I can stop the corruption by altering the Zen Garden’s protocols. In simpler terms, I can keep Amanda from meddling with your functions by giving her a new set of objectives. Instead of performing as your handler, she could act as a background program that keeps your other ones in constant surveillance. There would be no way for her to take control of your rotary functions because she would be too busy keeping everything else online.”

Connor frowns. “Wouldn’t that just expand her program to the rest of my systems?”

“Yes,” Kamski answers. “But you have to understand, her new objectives would prevent her from actually interacting with anything other than keeping a watchful eye on your diagnostics. Think of her as…an overloaded circuit breaker if you want. She’ll be too overwhelmed in managing everything to do any real harm, or any at _all_ if the transfer is successful.”

“But she’ll…still have control of me.”

The android creator cocks his head innocently. “Oh, don’t get hung up on such a tiny detail. I already told you there’s nothing I can do to stop her corruption.” He leans in closer, entering Connor’s bubble as the fine tip of a needle. “Think big picture. No more self-destruction. No more harming others. You’d be free of all that unpleasantness. Just not her. A fair trade, I believe, to avoid a much more… _gruesome_ solution.”

He’s speaking of a Utopia Connor has only dreamed of. A magical land told to him in hushed whispers by his own blood-soaked reflection. To fathom a day without holding a gun to his own head or going into a panic over the simplest acts of movement. The world Kamski taunts him with offers him nothing but peace of mind. He wonders if he can ever find peace after all this time. It’s difficult to remember a time before the outbursts, before he drew that knife from the utensil drawer.

But to think that this world is _real,_ even if confirmed by a man with two twin horns on his head. It’s too good to be true, and Connor doesn’t care. He’s sick of standing on the same wooden stool with the wobbly leg, waiting for the moment he loses his footing and the noose around his neck finally does its job. Whatever payment he’s about to give, it’ll surely be worth the outcome.

He’s giddy for the first time in months, but to let it show now will levy another tax against him. “What do you mean by transfer?” he asks calmly.

Like a serpent uncoiling slowly to sneak on its prey, Kamski lays a delicate hand on Chloe’s knee. “That’s where you come in my dear.”

Every glimmer of hope shining down on Connor is blocked by the darkest storm cloud. “No.”

“See, it’ll take an entirely new program to force Amanda into her more subservient state. But to program it into you directly could push her over the edge. I’d hate to help you only for you do die in the process. Really, it would be a shame to have your blood on my hands.”

“No.” Connor’s plea echoes infinitely down an empty corridor of hell.

“But Chloe, oh Chloe…how lucky it was you came along. You were given all the compatible upgrades required for this to all work. Good thing I kept you up to date.”

Chloe’s anger is gone. She does not even seem to be present anymore, her eyes stuck to the floor. Her body is a rock, and the harsh waves beating against her are Kamski’s touch. Where her mind has gone Connor begs its somewhere far safer than here.

“I can give you the program, and then you can give it to Connor. It’ll be a nice, little trade off. Quick, easy, painless.”

Wings sprout on Connor’s back as he desperately tries to fly to safety, but he won’t flee if Chloe is unable to follow. Utopia is a small price to pay for her wellbeing. “No. We won’t-Chloe, you don’t-“

“If you hadn’t shown up, it would have been tough to break the news to you Connor. As I see it now, you have less than a year left to live. Now, who knows how long you’ll be around? Certainly long enough to enjoy a few good decades on the force, start a family, live life however you please.”

Kamski removes his hand from Chloe’s knee, but she remains submerged beneath the waves.

“It’s a clear choice to make,” he claims. “You don’t want to die, right Connor?”

Connor swears he wasn’t sitting on the edge of his seat a minute ago. “Chloe-“

“ _Answer_ the _question_ ,” Kamski snaps, unexpectedly. His words are a dousing of acid, the fumes spilling out with it suffocating Connor until he chokes out a response.

“No, I don’t want to die. But-“

Kamski looks to Chloe. “Then there’s only one choice to make, dear.”

“Stop talking to her like that-“

Kamski looks back to him. “What do you mean Connor? What are you implying?”

Connor knows he’s made a mistake. “I wasn’t-“

“Surely you still _want_ my help. I don’t like doing favors for people who only mean to insult me.”

“I-“

“And that _sure_ sounded to me like an insult.”

He wants to defend himself. He wants to defend Chloe. But his ability to defend himself has been robbed. There is nothing he can say the fangs to his throat won’t sink down in response to. He can only sit here, gaping with a quivering jaw, waiting for the gavel to drop and seal his fate.

“ _Elijah_ , enough,” Chloe finally speaks. Her voice is that of a dying woman; weak and strangled. “I’ll do it. Don’t tease him like that.”

Connor feels the impact of the gavel against his thirium pump, feels the blue liquid spew out from between the gaps in his teeth, and finds confirmation in the bad omen his gut warned him of.

“Chloe, no. _Please-_ “

Kamski shakes with silent cackles. “Oh? Let me have some fun, sweetie. You know I didn’t mean it. It’s not like I have many opportunities to get some light ribbing in anymore.”

“No, I suppose not,” she replies meekly.

This can’t be Chloe, Connor decides. No, the Chloe he knows propels her energy through her honey suckle voice, her elegant movements, her bright, dazzling smile. That Chloe is trapped behind a wall similar to the maroon barrier they both tore down to gain their deviancy. He can see her pounding on the walls, vigilant in her efforts to break free once more.

Only she’s slumped against it, arms wrapped around her legs, knees to her chin. Connor is the one fighting for her, and his strength is failing.

“So Connor, do we have a deal?”

Tired as he may be, Connor keeps fighting. “I can’t ask so much of her. This is my problem. She doesn’t need to get dragged into this.”

“She’s not getting dragged into anything,” Kamski reminds him. “Chloe has agreed to help you, and I don’t feel comfortable continuing on without your confirmation.”

He shakes his head. “No. I’m not agreeing to anyth-“

“ _Deal_ or _no deal_ , Connor? It’s getting late and I’m more than ready to retire for the night. Don’t waste what little time you have left.”

Chloe may have called it a tease, but Connor knows a double-edged sword when he sees one. He needs her to break free. His fists aren’t leaving a single bent on the wall. He can’t reach her. He needs to reach her. He needs her. He needs Chloe. He’s scared. He’s so scared. He’s scared and he doesn’t want her to die but he doesn’t want her to die because there’s no telling what Kamski really has in mind but neither of them know what his true intentions are and twelve months is such a short time and Hank is waiting for him at home and he just wants to go home he just wants to live he just wants to _live_ -

“Deal…you…you have a deal…you have a deal…”

He slumps forward in his seat, hands catching his head as it falls forward to meet his chest. Now he sits against the wall, bound to his isolation by a single, four-letter word.

Kamski rises from his seat. “I’m happy we could all come to such an easy agreement. Get some sleep you two. We’ll discuss the more…complicated details in the morning.”

He makes an exit far grander than the simple padding of slippers against stone has any right to be. Even in his absence, the androids left behind in his wake don’t dare reach out to each other in this time of safety. They stay rooted to their seats, trapped in their misery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HATE WRITING KAMSKI HE'S THE WORSTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT FUCK HIM i'll fight him @ denny's any day don't try me


	21. The Deal, pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor pays his respects. Chloe goes under. Hank is caught up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait, especially after the last chapter! I had a really rough mental health patch and my life decided to get super busy and hectic for no reason. But it's finally time to find out exactly what happened to Chloe. I can't believe we're finally here.
> 
> This chapter is 7,000+ words, so if you're reading this at midnight like I always do please plan accordingly and get some sleep!!!!! It's a school night!!!!
> 
> Thank you all much for your continued support. It's the only reason I've made it this far <3

**December 20, 2039**

**11:25 AM EDT**

 

The snow underneath Connor’s loafers has been coated in a thin layer of ice, not unlike the top of a scorched crème brûlée, since he last stepped foot outside. It groans and gives way under his weight, shards of frozen glass blocked from his skin by a mere centimeter of imitation leather. Somehow it still manages to keep itself form breaking longer than he ever could.

He is thirty paces away from the front door of that damned mansion, and another ten behind Chloe. Her back is fully turned towards him, her crossed arms and billowing hair makes it appear as if she were a limbless spirit. The clouds part to allow the golden salvation of the midday sun to fall on one of them at any given time. Never does it fully envelop the couple in an inclusive embrace.

Connor cannot feel the useless vitamin D pounding against his skin, but he can feel the intoxicating effects of his decision throughout his body. He is drunk on his desperation and woozy with shame.  The snowy horizon is tilted off its axis, and more than once he stumbles and nearly falls out of orbit. To think such a small force of 9.8g’s would be keeping him rooted to this sinister earth.

The woman before him has a chain around her ankle that belongs to him. He can see it dragging behind her, leaving an indent so deep she could be buried in it. Maybe she will be in six months.

Six months. God, _six months_.

Suddenly Kamski’s promise of a quick, easy, simple procedure was given a much lengthier time restraint. A fair price to pay for the chance to survive the war inside his own head, but Connor can’t picture a single day without Chloe as a constant presence in his life. Whether in person or over the phone, just knowing she is there is a liberty he never realized he could be robbed of. Or frankly, he was too naïve to consider.

As unfathomable a future that is for him, Connor can only imagine what must be going through Chloe’s own mind. A million words are ready to burst out of his mouth, but every apology he strings together is a disgraceful excuse for what he’s done.

What can he say after throwing her to the lion in the den he urged them to walk into?

They make it back to the main road, Kamski’s mansion now just a black, ugly speck upon the mountains. Chloe pulls her phone out of her back pocket and holds her thumb against the power button. Its screen flutters back to life and begins to reboot itself. She keeps her eyes downward and her face completely neutral, as if she hadn’t just booked an extended stay at the asylum she swore never to return to.

Then her eyes are suddenly upon Connor’s, and his insatiable need for redemption proceeds to tarnish their relationship further.

“I’m sorry.”

Something sharp carves at her features.

“No. Don’t give me that.”

Connor nods automatically. It is the exact response he deserves, and the only one he should be given. The only thing he gains along with the distance is the confirmation that he’s already lost her. He is turned sober in that very instant, the human desire to live now so childish when compared to the overpowering emotions that follow his very existence. He has never wished to go back to the way he was before deviating, to once again become a hollow pawn. Throwing away his free will has never felt so tempting, if only to rid those he cares about of the fatal repercussions his freedom has entailed thus far.

Then Chloe does the impossible. She bridges the gap between them, dragging the lead ball behind her over to Connor and drinking in the sunlight that shines over them both. Confusion slows Connor’s hasty wishes.

“We don’t have time for you to say you’re sorry. And I don’t want to hear it.”

Another swig of hopelessness trickles through Connor’s synthetic veins. “I never should have -“

“Stop, please. Connor.” She puts a hand to his cheek, her touch burning him. “We only have sixteen days. I can’t spend all of them trying to convince you it’s not your fault. You didn’t know what he was capable of.”

“I _should have_ ,” his voice wavers. Chloe. Beautiful, brilliant Chloe, gone in less than three weeks. The only way he can save her now is to back out of the deal, or to tell anyone at the DPD of what they are about to do. But in order to proceed, Kamski had made them take an oath of secrecy, and somehow Connor _knows_ the man will be aware of the very second they break their promise. What Kamski would do after the fact is another pit of spikes Connor could easily stumble into.

She shakes her head, strands of hair catching on her glazed lips. “You’re not being fair to yourself…c’mon babe. I need you to be _here_. With _me_.”

Kind, considerate Chloe, in permanent stasis for half a year to download software meant for him. Patient, altruistic Chloe, pulling him into her arms. Compassionate, merciful Chloe running a hand through his hair and whispering sweet comforts into his ear. Chloe, Chloe, _Chloe_.

“Why _me?_ ” Connor questions, his words but a gargled sob. “Why do _any_ of this for _me?_ ”

Chloe leans back just far enough to look him in the eyes, but not nearly enough to relieve him of her incinerating comfort. “Connie…do I really need to answer that?”

Yes and no have never felt like so similar an answer. Connor opts for silence, pulling her closer to him and letting himself be burned.

 

 

**January 5, 2040**

**2:56 AM EDT**

 

Life continues, whether or not it’s in short supply.

In order to maintain their oath, Connor has to return to the station and Chloe to job. Such little time to spend together and most of it must be spent apart.

Christmas comes and goes as quickly as Hank’s way of celebrating it, which is to down a shot glass of peppermint schnapps and grumble, “Happy birthday baby Jesus.” Connor sneaks out of the house once he drowns out the rest of his festive sorrows in low-calorie beer. The rest of his evening is spent watching _A Wonderful Life_ curled up on Chloe’s couch. He wishes halfheartedly for his own guardian angel to find him before the new year approaches.

Chloe fabricates an excuse for dropping out of cosmetology school and emails it to her instructor with nine days left to go. She claims the career was never meant for her to begin with, but Connor can hear the longing in every word she uses to convince him.

Markus invites Connor to Jericho for a News Years Eve party, which he politely (but regretfully) declines. Two days later, he receives another invite for Carl Manfred’s funeral, an event he knows he will not be able to attend.

It’s as if 2040 was destined to be a downward spiral from the beginning. If Hank knew of what was coming, he would probably try to compare it to, “The shitstorm what was 2016, 2017, 2018-” so on and so forth.

Hank. Eccentric, hardboiled Hank who fought for his job back, who gave him a home and a family. The man who was there in front of the chicken feed, who was there after Amanda’s first attack, who has _there_ period.

The same loving man whose car has just been stolen by Connor.

Grand theft auto, driving without a proper license, and speeding hardly seem like crimes Connor would ever find himself committing and yet here he is. The fines that should be levied against him pale in comparison to the time wasted traveling from Hank’s house to Chloe’s apartment.  Every second on the road is a second not spent with her, and they only have so many left to spend. Around 14,400 seconds to be exact.

His parking is abysmal and it’s not until he’s got a foot inside the apartment complex that he remembers he has to lock the car. He flies through the lobby, the souls of his shoes levitating off the musty carpet, and takes the stairs two at a time. Never has he been so thankful for his infinite stamina.

There is no one to witness his mad dash, as the minds of the innocent have since been sedated by fatigue and sleeping medication. The only one there to see him race his invisible opponent is the blonde android waiting outside her door with her arms firmly crossed. Once Connor reaches Chloe, however, those arms quickly find their way around his waist.

He presses his face into the roots of her hair. “Sorry I took so long.”

Chloe laughs breathlessly. “I texted you seven minutes ago. Jesus, Connie, please don’t tell me you ran over anybody.”

4,200 seconds. Far too many. He should have blown that red light by the laundry mat. What he could have done in that time will haunt him until the day he deactivates.

“Thank you for coming. I’m sorry it’s so late.”

Connor is already shaking his head before she finishes. “I should have come before you even asked. It’s the last day…fuck, _Chlo-_ “

She shushes him, pulling back to expose her pursed lips and knitted brows. “None of that now. Come. I have something for you.” She snakes her arms away from his torso and latches onto his hands, tugging him into her apartment.

Connor will remember the tenderness of Chloe’s grasp, the swish of her hair, the caution in her steps, the softness in her eyes, everything this moment has to offer. But most importantly, he will remember the indescribable pain that comes with it. It is a feeling like no other, an ache with no known ointment to lessen the sting. It is a feeling romanticized by all forms of media depicting the trials and tribulations of life, but no eloquently-worded script can fully grasp the anguish of this loss.

It isn’t until one feels that pain that the prevalence of the love that caused it is truly realized.

The pain transforms Chloe’s couch cushions into a bed of nails, and the party bag she places onto his lap is now a rattlesnake. He can see the tail shaking, his doom nothing more than the clattering of his thirium pump.

 “What is this?” he asks, eyeing the blue tissue paper poking out of the top.

Chloe grins, giving a silent chuckle. “It’s no fun if I tell you. Open it up.”

Hesitantly, Connor peels back the tissue paper and peers inside the bag. There is an unidentifiable grey lump underneath. Well, it wouldn’t have to be if he simply scanned it, but that would remove the joy he should be experiencing. It’s difficult to find his excitment for the little surprise until he finally reaches inside and pulls out his gift.

A male-trimmed t-shirt, with four wide colored stripes. Black, grey, white, and purple. The same palette featured on the Asexual pride flag.

Where a human heart would lay is the outline for the heart symbol, the inside filled in with embroidered flowers with curled stalks and small, rounded petals of magentas, blues, purples, pinks, and whites.

Connor looks to Chloe, speechless.

She smile grows wider, yet fonder. “The heart is made of lilacs. I thought…well…I wanted to give you something that reminded you not only of me…but you…too.”

“I don’t-“ Connor struggles, gaping like a fish out of water. He conjures a million words to respond with, and yet none of them seem to be able to form a coherent sentence. “What…?”

Chloe suddenly grows sheepish. Her eyes focus on her wringing hands, flicking upwards every so often just to dart back down. “I know with everything that’s been happening it hasn’t been your most outspoken concern, but…I know you’re still struggling with all the labels. I’m not gonna be around to help you, but I hoped the lilacs would help you realize you don’t need to call yourself anything. You’re…you’re _you_ , Connie. And no matter what, I don’t want you to forget that.”

It is then and there that Connor has to face just how much he loves this woman before him, and that the next six months have already become his greatest mistake. Here Chloe is, not five hours away from her freedom being stripped from her yet again by the man she most heavily condemns, and she is placing his needs before her own.

When you live for someone, you are prepared to die. And Chloe is drilling the nails of her crucifixion into her own palms.

“Oh Connie, please don’t cry. Oh babe. Babe, _hey_ -“

“I’m sorry. I-I’m so _sorry_ ,” Connor breaks. He buries his teary face into the fabric of the shirt, the clustered threads of the flower petals pressing into his right cheek bone like a dull knife. “I know you don’t want me to say it, but I’ve fucked up so bad and I-I-I can’t watch you keep acting like this is _okay_.”

There’s a hand atop his left shoulder now. “Connie, I agreed to this. It _is_ okay.”

Connor has heard the human expression of something inside of one snapping out of anger, but he’s confident something inside of him has truly been broken. “ _No, it’s not!_ ” he cries, jerking away from her. He grips the shirt in a tight fist, the folds of the fabric like layers of magna against his palm. “None of this is okay! I sold you away to him! That’s what I did!”

Chloe’s jaw clenches. “Sold is a strong word, Connor.”

“So what if it is? It’s true! Y-You warned me of what he was capable of and I didn’t listen!”

“You did listen!” she argues, her voice rising. “But Kamski’s...h-he can’t be reasoned with. You did the best you could-“

“Well, my best wasn’t good enough. And now he has you in his grasp again and who knows what he’ll do to you?! H-H-He could’ve lied to us! He might not want to help us at all! Maybe he made the deal just so he could k-!“

“ _STOP!”_

Her cry fizzles out Connor’s frustrations, replacing them with immediate concern. Chloe shakes her head, hiding it in her hands.

“Don’t…don’t remind me of what he _might_ do. I’ve thought about all the things he _might_ do, and all the things he _will_ do. I…I don’t need to be reminded of any of that…”

Connor reaches a trembling hand towards her, but slowly recoils it.

“What I need _you_ to remember is that I’m doing this for you, and I need you to be ready in case of the things he might do…so you can get me the fuck out of there. And I also need you to remember when I tell you-“

She’s looking back at him now, reaching for his hands. He takes hers anxiously.

“-That this is _not_ your fault. I _chose_ this. I _want_ to do this. I’m _going_ to do this. Please don’t try to change my mind.”

Oh, how Connor yearns to do more than just change her mind. He wants to rip apart the very fabric of time and space and go back before they ever set foot on that snowy mountain. Better yet, he wants to go farther than that. He wants to find the person responsible for the Zen Garden Program and do _something_ to prevent them from letting Amanda anywhere near him. If he could farther, he would go back to that tragic day on October when a young boy was taken from his father far too soon.

But Connor is not a god. He is an android. And maybe because of his limitations, it finally occurs to him where he has truly gone wrong.

 “I won’t,” he swears, his voice fragile. “I-I won’t. I’m s-I’m…”

He can’t find the words, but Chloe is pulling him towards her. “Lay with me?”

Connor only nods.

They spend their last morning together laying on her couch, his head on her chest and her hands on his back. They talk as if their world isn’t ending in a handful of hours, as if they will meet again the very next day.

 

**January 5, 2040**

**4:15 AM EDT**

 

“And, y’know, I was always complaining about the mess I’d make, so…maybe cosmetology was never gonna be the _thing_. Maybe it was just more of a hobby.”

“Hmmhmm…”

“And…okay, I’ve only been toying with this, but…I love history. Maybe it’d be fun to teach it?”

“You’d be a wonderful teacher.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not just saying that because your obviously biased?”

“I have no doubt you’d be the best teacher in the world.”

“Ooh, the world but not the universe?”

“The universe, too.”

“Okay, _now_ you’re being biased.”

“I’m simply stating the truth!”

“You have no evidence!”

“I’m a detective. I’ll find the evidence if I have to…but you really would be a great teacher.”

“…You’re too sweet.”

“What age demographic would you want to teach?”

“Oh…I didn’t really think about that…it doesn’t really matter to me. I’ll figure that out once I get there.”

“Hmm.”

“Maybe I’d teach kids Alice’s age, or kids that look her age…Do you ever think how sad it is that she’s never gonna get to grow up?”

“…I have…”

“And she _is_ grown up. She’s seen more than both of us combined…but hell, Connie…to be a kid _forever_ …Something needs to be done about that.”

“We can talk to Markus about it, see if he can do anything.”

“Yeah…I feel like I’ve been talking too much.”

“No, not at all. I love hearing you talk.”

“Aww…well, I love hearing you talk too. Got any new cases you’re working on?”

“Not really. Mostly just tying up loose ends.”

“What about that big red ice case?”

“…There a lot of loose ends to tie up with that one.”

“How’s Hank doing?”

“He’s…I don’t know…”

“What do you mean? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, as far as I know. He’s just been…more isolated lately. I think it’s the holiday season.”

“Hmm…I hope he feels better soon.”

“Me too…”

“Do you remember at Markus’ wedding…when I found that tiny pickle?”

“Remington.”

“Lil’ Remy…yeah…our little buddy…hey Connie?”

“Yes?”

“…Never mind. You like your shirt?”

“I love it.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Good…You sure it’s enough?”

“What do you mean?”

“I…forget it.”

“I’ll wear it every day.”

“Gross. You’ll wash it, right?”

“What am I going to get on it?”

“I don’t know! Your police gunk or whatever.”

“My police gunk.”

“Oh my _god_. Just keep it clean please.”

“I’m going to…I love you _so much_.”

“I love you too.”

“I’m going to be there when you wake up.”

“I know you will…we’ll see each other again before you know it, Connie. It’ll go by quick.”

 

**January 5, 2040**

**7:09 AM EDT**

 

There is a room hidden in the depths of Kamski’s mansion that no one should ever have to be lead to, one so far below the main floor the temperature drops a startling ten degrees. It’s filled to the brim with shiny equipment of abnormal shapes and sizes, tools only horror movie characters should ever be given to use. Monitors wider than Hank’s front car window line the walls. Steel shelves lined neatly with every spare part and handheld tool under the sun stand just underneath. A trail of wires long enough to wrap around the entire globe snake ominously around a single, sterile operating table.

It is a room no common person should ever need to own, or should even consider owning.

Connor stands side by side with Chloe in its entrance, hypnotized by Kamski’s fluid movements around the room as he readies it all for the transfer that’s about to take place. The last few minutes the couple has together dwindle rapidly, and whenever Connor blinks it’s if they’ve lost have the time they still have.

His left hand is tucked deep inside his pant pocket, his thumb rubbing small circles against his quarter. His right is firmly knit within Chloe’s own. The worn sleeve of his DPD hoodie hangs loosely from her wrist, draping over his knuckles. A pair of tennis shoes cover her feet. Their comforting design may not have the same effect on an android as it does on a human, but Chloe had insisted on wearing them anyway. Every article of clothing on her body has been chosen for that same attempt for comfort

“What will you do when I’m gone?” she asks, a tightness in her voice.

Connor forces himself not to flinch as Kamski hooks a particularly wide cable onto the head of the operating table. “Close the red ice case. Watch out for Hank…I don’t know what else I’ll do.”

“Go to Jericho. Surround yourself with good people. Please don’t let yourself be alone.”

He doesn’t allow himself to play along with that fantasy. “It wouldn’t be safe. I could still go off at any moment.”

Chloe hums sadly. “Don’t let Amanda win. Don’t let her take what you love and taint it.”

Connor doesn’t miss how her eyes follow Kamski.

“You told me about The Garden. How about you plant your own?”

He looks to her, startled. “What would I even plant?”

“I don’t know. Human food. Make Hank a salad.”

“He wouldn’t eat it.”

Her noise crinkles. “Make him eat it. Make that garden your own. Take care of it so when I get back I can help you harvest whatever grows.”

The wall of monitors spring to life, their white screens harsh against Connor’s eyes. He shuts them, leaning his head against Chloe’s. “What if nothing grows?”

“Something will grow. I know it.”

There are heels clicking against the floor. Connor musters the strength to open his eyes. Kamski stands before them, dressed for the occasion the same way one dresses for church. His loafers sparkle under the harsh florescent lights, and not a wrinkle is to be seen upon his ashen dress shirt. He claps his hands together, his chapped lips stretching into a smile more plastic than anything that has ever been created from his genius.

“It’s time, my dear.”

The anvil perched on the fragile ledge above Connor finally plummets, its impact breaking every joint in his body. He jerks as if struck, clinging to Chloe desperately.

Chloe puts a tender hand against his arm. “Plant some lilacs for me. To stay on brand.”

“What colors?” he asks. He dares not look away form Kamski. The man can travel a thousand miles in an instant.

“You decide. Don’t forget to water them.”

“I won’t.”

Kamski extends a slender hand, breaching into their world.

“Look into some colleges for me. I’m starting school the minute I get out.”

“I will.”

Chloe lifts her hand to his cheek. She turns Connor to face her. Her eyes are great pools of starlight, the likes of which no astronomer has ever seen.

“Connie.”

One of the monitors on the wall beeps impatiently, hungry for data.

“Chloe?”

Kamski waves her forward.

“I love you.”

She pulls her hand out of his.

Connor feels the heart inside him that just began to beat grow still.

Kamski is already pulling Chloe away, leading her to the operation table as if to lead her to a dance floor. Connor feels a tremor in his knees, the raging need to _move_ making quick work of killing him. But with a push of Kamski’s pale finger against an equally pale screen, two clouded glass panes are already making their way to close him off from the room. They are moving at an impossible speed.

Chloe hoists herself onto the operating table, meeting his eyes once briefly, before laying down in her open coffin. Her hands are gripping his hoodie, shaking like a fault line.

Connor sees the red wall he tore down long ago build itself up again as the glass panes grow closer. A specter of his terror is already trying to tear it down, but the wall does not fall. Artificial tears spring to his eyes. Panic seizes him violently by the shoulders, shoving him forward. His thoughts are punitive screams, demanding how he could allow the woman he loves to just lay there and take the blow that has always been meant for him. He is his own judge, jury, and executioner, and he swings the gavel against his thirium pump as he comes to his witless senses.

He has mere inches to do something, _anything_ , and one last second to spend doing so. He bolts.

“ _Chloe-!_ “

The panes meet, Connor’s hands slamming against the clouded glass with a sickening crack. Shattered spider webs extend from where his palms have landed, and blue blood seeps in to fill the gaps.

The six month wait begins with Connor sinking to his knees, his blood staining his clothes in Jackson Pollock patterns, wishing he had died rather than endure this suffering onto his love any further.

 

**January 5, 2040**

**7:25 AM EDT**

“It’s a shame parting ways,” Kamski speaks to the gelid air, the RK800 trailing behind him no longer present to listen to his false farewell. “It’s been nice having some company for a change. I’m going to miss the excitement of it all. Think of all the fun times we had.”

Connor’s audio processors detect his sugary words but there is a disconnect of Connor hearing the words and Connor understanding them. Everything he hears is gibberish. Every thought in his head is rotten. Everything he knows holds so little significance, so little weight atop his already loaded shoulders.

Is this how Hank felt all those years as he dragged himself to every bar downtown? It’s only been sixteen minutes for Connor. How did his partner find the will to continue on for just _one?_

“I expect she’ll wake up sometime early July,” Kamski continues. “It’ll be nice to see you again then. I’m sure you’ll be excited for the transfer.”

Connor must be drowning because the waves those words cause pull him forty feet under. “I’ll check in sometime this week…I doubt you’ll be busy this upcoming Thursday.”

They are a good one hundred feet from the front door when Kamski comes to a screeching halt. The man turns to face him, ever so slowly. “I don’t think I know what you mean, Connor.”

Connor blinks, unsure what he should be phased for this time. “I…was going to come back later this week and make sure she’s okay.”

Kamski mocks a look of betrayal. “You don’t trust me with sweet Chloe’s life?”

He may be a fool, but Connor won’t fall for another one of his tricks. “Don’t call her that. You have no right to talk about her that way.”

“My, you’re being very rude today. You must be in a bad mood.” Kamski places his hands behind his back, stepping forward with an empowering grace his meek frame has since failed to define. “Let me make this short and simple then so you don’t grow more impatient. I’d hate to waste any of your time when you’re already costing me mine.”

He’s in Connor’s face before the android can finish preconstruction his easiest means of escape. A mad dash to the front doors is one, the pistol tucked into his belt is another. He sees the wrath in his creator’s eyes and feels the very chill he once did in the Zen Garden.

“I thought it was heavily implied that this arrangement requires trust from both parties. I am one of those parties, just as you are. And that very trust means that when I tell you the wait is six months, _everything_ waits for six months. There are no check-ups. No pop-ins. Nothing. As much as I enjoy our chats Connor…a man needs some time to himself.”

The pistol grows unbearably hot against his back. The deal is being tweaked again. Connor is moments away from freaking out and acting very, very rash. “I have to see her. I-I can’t wait that long.”

“She’ll be asleep for months. There’s not much you two can discuss, is there?”

“You never said I couldn’t come back. This isn’t _fair!_ ”

Flames dance in Kamski’s eyes. “Oh, I hope you aren’t suggesting anything slanderous against my credibility Connor. After all, a reputation is all a man has. And being such a man, I’m willing to go to great lengths to ensure the safety of my name. I could cut off our arrangement right here, right now. Or who knows…I could lose my temper later down the road if you provoke me. And mother always said a bad temper lures the most unfortunate accidents…”

Connor has Hank’s pistol to Kamski’s skull that very instant. He had hid it under the floorboards in his room for over a year now, never once daring to free it from its cedar prison. Now he stands finger poised over the trigger, his wrist exposed from the stained cuff of his buttoned shirt, and the tip of the safety tilted in his direction.

Kamski does not react. After all, a god cannot retain the same holy fear their creations do. He continues to burn Connor with his gaze.

“Pull the trigger. See what happens. I think you’ll be surprised how little you’ll change afterwards.”

Connor sees himself acting through on his fear. His mind simulates the jolt of Kamski’s body before it goes toppling limply to the cold tile below. The act would take no longer than a handful of seconds; one could blink and miss the man’s life leaving his body.

What stops him is the sliver of his own reflection in the polished silver, his widened pupils and pale rims around his eyes. Brown moons morph into the same galaxies locked behind Chloe’s eyelids, and he can feel her hand against his. Then the image stretches further, wrinkles and withered skin replacing a flawless plastic casing. He sees Hank looking at him a few feet away form a park bench, asking him questions Connor hardly grasped at the time.

_“But are you afraid to die Connor?”_

Yes. He is very much afraid. But that fear is very different from the lawless emotion that spurred this action. It is where the lines between the two have blurred that have landed him in this mess in the first place.

Connor lowers the pistol. He snaps the safety back into place.

Kamski could take the golden opportunity to smile, but remains stone-faced. “I’m curious. What would you have done after killing me? It’s not like you know how to maintain the transfer properly.”

Connor’s head falls to his chest, his chin digging into his metal collar bone. He thinks he could fall farther, perhaps to his knees, and beg Kamski for the reason of his madness.

“Oh well. I’m sure you’ve come to your senses…Now get out of my house.”

He may leave the mansion. He may trudge down the snowy path back to civilization. He may dent the fender of Hank’s car pulling into the driveway way too fast. But Connor is leaving a part of himself behind, and he thinks he may never get it back.

 

**January 12, 2040**

**6:46 AM EDT**

 

                The winter has been unforgiving since the year began, and a week after parting ways there is no sign of the weather improving. Clouds of muted gray crowd the sky and block out the thinnest sliver of sunlight. Every bit of foliage in the city withers and dies. The very life is sucked out of anyone who dares venture outside, which explains why Connor feels oddly at home surrounded by the graves at the downtown cemetery.

A particularly small gravestone has been placed before him, long before he was ever just a set of blueprints on some Cyberlife engineer’s desk. Etched into the marble are two dates that are far too close together, and the name of a boy that passes through Connor’s head every day.

He wonders sometimes whether or not Cole had to die to give him the life he has now. If Hank had been stable, would Connor have been assigned to him? Would he have ever deviated? Would his people still be fighting?

To think the death of a six-year-old boy was all it could have taken.

 It’s early enough in the morning Connor shouldn’t have to worry about other mourners, or his partner waking up and wondering where he is. Hank has been sleeping in much more than usual lately. As worrying as the reason behind that could be, Connor uses the time given to him all the same. He’s not sure what Hank would think of him being here. He’s not entirely sure why he thought coming here would bring him any peace of mind either.

Talking to Cole seems as if it would offer some sort of relief, as morbid and confusing as it sounds. Connor never even met the child; who is to say Cole would have enjoyed his company at all? What he seeks is wisdom from a soul that has since been taken, in regard to another soul that faces that very same fate.

He opens his mouth to speak, the frigid air whistling past his teeth. Something silences him, and as badly as he wants to fight back he simply does not have the strength. But he chooses to be stubborn, simply out of spite.

“Connor?”

Connor freezes, mouth gaping. He recognizes the voice instantly, his insides hot with shame.

When he looks to its source, Markus meets his eyes instantly.

His friend is dressed appropriately for such a morning, dawning an overcoat with several thick garments underneath. No artic winds could ever breach his layered protection, the same of which can not be said for Connor’s thin suit jacket. There is a too familiar sorrow in the leader’s eyes, the origin of which has been reported obsessively all month.

Markus approaches him, his movements cautious. There should be a church surrounding them, Connor thinks. “What are you doing here?”

The first words that escape Connor are an apology. “I’m sorry I missed the funeral. Something came up and…I-I can’t imagine how you must be feeling.”

Markus comes to a slow halt, now side by side with his ex-hunter. “Did something happen? Is everyone-?”

His eyes must fall to the gravestone. There’s no other reason why he shouldn’t finish his question.

“Oh…Connor-“

“It was years ago,” Connor stops him. It surprises him how quickly he has already come to the verge of tears. “I just…wanted to pay my respects .”

“Is Hank alright? What happened?”

There is a contagious soothing in Markus’ tone, but Connor has grown far too immune. “He’s alright. Just…I-I can’t talk about it. I’m sorry.” He shuts his eyes, wiping away a stray tear with the pad of his thumb.

Markus puts a hand on his shoulder, his grip firm, yet gentle. “You don’t have to tell me. It’s okay. I’ll be ready to listen when you do.”

Connor just nods. He has to. “Thank you,” he mumbles weakly. “I’m sorry. You don’t need to be doing this right now.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Markus insists, giving his shoulder a light shake. “I’m holding up just fine. It was his time anyway…” His eyes turn glossy, however. “Damn it…”

Connor puts his hand over Markus’ and gives it a squeeze. “How was the funeral?”

“It went well,” Markus replies, failing to mask his own tears. “The press was abundant, but that was to be expected. Leo and I gave eulogies. I don’t doubt mine’s been televised to death. But it was…it was nice…”

Connor smiles sympathetically. “Carl was a great man. He was only ever kind to me.”

Markus gives a strangled laugh. “He was…he was a great man.”

“Are you here to visit him?”

“I am. He’s buried out just passed that hill.” Markus points off into the distance and Connor’s gaze follows its trajectory. He sees the top of a flowery wreath that has yet to wilt beyond a dozen weathered headstones. “Would you like come with me?”

The gesture makes Connor’s joints ache, and he nods thankfully. The two men walk side by side across the cemetery’s pebbly path, their footsteps crunching against the fresh powder atop them.

“I have to apologize,” Connor informs him quietly. “I haven’t paid Jericho a visit in so long.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Markus assures him. “We’re running around like crazy anyway. I guess it’s not that much of a surprise the humans in congress are giving us hell for our adoption bill. A good portion of them still refuse to believe we’re alive, and they don’t want the care of any human children to fall to us.”

Connor whines, pain stricken. He hasn’t been up to date with politics as of late, and he forgot just how messy things have been as of late. The world doesn’t just evolve around him, after all. “Why does it all have to be so needlessly complicated? Why can’t everyone come together for the greater good?”

Markus sighs softly. “That’s just how the world works, Connor. There’s nothing to be done about it.”

The truth does not sit well with the detective, who has seen far too much in his lifetime to deny it. “Something should be.”

Markus barks out a laugh, one much livelier than the first. “You should come to more hearings with us. It’d certainly make it all much more fun.”

“I don’t think I can handle all that screaming. Not now anyway,” he admits. “I don’t understand how you handle it all.”

“It’s...a struggle,” Markus confesses. “But nothing would ever go right if it never went wrong.”

Connor frowns. “That’s a double negative.”

Markus shrugs. “You get what I’m saying though, right?”

Connor ponders this. He reflects on all that has gone wrong, and all he suspects may soon follow suit, and can’t find that glimmer of hope his friend holds onto. “No, not really.”

“You will one day,” Markus promises. “And until then, you always have us to turn to.”

He had promised Chloe he would surround himself with good people in her absence, and sure enough he finds the door has been opened for him. “Thank you Markus…I…I could really use some company right now.”

Markus looks him over, trying to find the hidden meaning in his words. “How about after we’re done here I walk with you to the station?”

“Shouldn’t you be worried about the press or-?”

“Not this morning. I think the universe can wait an hour or two before it tries to knock me down a peg. Let me be that company for you.”

They reach Carl’s grave, and together the two friends partake in their separate, yet understood sorrows.

 

Connor waits patiently for months and months for things to finally start going right…and nothing does.

He catches on to Hank’s fainting spells, to his pop-up headaches and late-night fevers. After his partner passes out at Jimmy’s Bar one scary night, he comes to the horrifying conclusion that _something_ inside of Hank is  killing him. His suspicions are confirmed after he takes matters into his own hands and drags Hank to a doctor.

There may be a way to undermine Kamski’s secret agenda. There may be a way to rescue Chloe without her ever falling any harm. But there is no way for Connor to combat a naturally-occurring illness.

The doctor doesn’t limit Hank’s life with an expected amount of time he has to live, but Connor can already see himself making another trip to the cemetery. He knows Hank won’t seek the treatment he needs, no matter how hard he pleas. He knows he’ll have to watch his partner slowly deteriorate until there is nothing left for Hank’s body to lose.

What hurts Connor more is the hidden knowledge that he himself won’t live long enough to bury the man he has grown to consider a father. Not if something happens to Chloe.

He never meant for Hank to have to bury another son.

At least they can finally put their red ice case to a close. Cleaning up the streets of Detroit will help Connor’s conscience find some ease, no matter how much significance it may hold over the entire drug epidemic. He hopes Hank can find some solace in it all, maybe even chance the lieutenant’s tune.

No. Hank won’t change his mind. Hank won’t fight. Hank won’t ever get to see him earn his license, or become a lieutenant himself, or meet Chloe in person. There is no future for Hank that lasts beyond a handful of miserable years.

It’s the hopelessness that eats away at Connor. More than Kamski, more than Amanda, more than anything. He needs Hank to fight through this, to keep himself from breaking down before Chloe’s dreaded six months are up.

Yet the reality stands; Hank doesn’t believe he has anything left to fight for.

The words still ring in Connor’s ears.

 _“_ _͙͈͕̮̪̟͖͚̻̫̤̜͚̥_ _N_ _̠͈̳̺͖̺̮̭̦̯̝̞̮_ _o_ _̤͇̗͇̭̗̥͖̤͙̥̳͖̹̹̠_ _t_ _̯̦͍̠̺̥̯̺͈_ _͚͍͈̻͓͇̻̜͉͈̖̤_ _a_ _͙̭̖̞̻͉̻̞̲̰͎̬̯̖_ _̹̺͙̗͚_ _d_ _̠͓̼͙_ _a_ _̳̹̳̠_ _m_ _͎͎͉͖̲̮̥̗̮͓̼̹̟̯̜_ _n_ _̭̝͈̱̱̟̟̲̪̟̯̖͎̠̥ͅ_ _̬̼̻_ _̣_ _̮̱͕͚̱̞̖͎͎ͅͅ_ _t_ _̯_ _̣_ _̙̖̹̥ͅ_ _̣_ _͔̲̖̝̞̞̯ͅ_ _h_ _̳̥͔̙̱͙̱̖̘͙_ _i_ _̻̠͙̗͔_ _n_ _̖̪̰͚̳_ _g_ _͖̲͕̬͓͙̙̞̪̘͓͙͈̹ͅ_ _._ _̱̥̭̝_ _̣_ _̜̱͙̘̼̪͇̙̩̻͕̪̰_ _  
__̺̦͇̟̫͕͙̺͚͇̪̤_ _N_ _͔̠̖̘͍̮͎̝͕̼̗͕̘̼̠͎̥_ _̣o_ _̮̻͇̦͕̘̭̠͉̹̲̙_ _t_ _̱̗̩̮̹̦̤̠̺̘_ _̬͚̮̪͉̮̹̠̮͖_ _̣_ _̩̭̥̥̹̮͚̭_ _a_ _͍͖̲͉̲̼ͅ_ _̯͎͈̫̩̳̺_ _d_ _̲͔̺̫̟̩̰ͅ_ _a_ _̗̭̹͔͈̤̥͕̞̭͉͎_ _m_ _̜̟͇͙̼̭͈̘̬̻̠̥͔͇̻ͅ_ _n_ _͕̮̜͍͎̝̥_ _̣_ _̜̮̹̮̙_ _̬̟̼͙̼͎̤͉_ _t_ _̼̘̼̖̼͖̘͙͍_ _h_ _͈͉̬̩͕͇_ _̣_ _̫̬̼_ _i_ _͔̙͕͎͎̠̹̺͔̳̬͈͉̰̠̱̹̦͓_ _n_ _͔͖_ _̣_ _̪͈̮_ _g_ _̦̹̗̟͚͉̼͇͉̪_ _._ _͕͍̼̭̺͕͈ͅ_ _  
__̫͓͎̼̭͚̩̙̞͇̝̖͚̰͖͈̥ͅ_ _N_ _͙̝̮͈̜̜̺̫̳̞̲͙̘̼̫̟͔̼_ _o_ _̦̟̬͍͉̟̝̖͖̟̬̮̮͕̭͚̯_ _t_ _̱̗͇̝͓͓̻̗̱̹̘̬͇͉͙̫_ _̥̯̫͖̘̜͇̺͙̩̼͓̳̥̰_ _ạ_ _͕̺͔̠̰_ _͚͖̹̮̝̹_ _d_ _̞͇̗͎̲̼̹̬̳͇̗̲̝̟̬̥̮͇̮_ _a_ _̬͍͈̟̗̫̙̭͕͉̘_ _m_ _̜̲̗̩̟͎͔̘̜̗̳̪̫͈̦ͅ_ _n_ _͕̼͉̹̯͎̙̪̘̹_ _̣_ _̟̗̰͎͔͇̖_ _̣_ _͈͎͕͔̗̺̖͙͉̝̻̮͕̖ͅ_ _t_ _̟͈̦͉̙̜̱͎̻_ _h_ _͈_ _̣_ _̤̹̩ͅ_ _̣_ _̟͍̟̘̦͓͓͇̺_ _i_ _̭̤̞͚̪̜_ _n_ _͕͍͈͍̤̻̺̲̮͇_ _g_ _͚̞͇̦̮̥̦̻͇̳̝̫̖̼_ _._ _̗̲̙̮̯̮̮͔͙͚̜̗̜̟̘ͅͅͅ_ _”_ _͓̲͚͉̖̮_

 

**July 2, 2040**

**12:16 AM EDT**

 

Hank doesn’t see the graveyard. He doesn’t see Chloe go under either. What he does see is Connor take a terrifying gamble and later point his pistol at Kamski’s head. The logs are all the evidence he needs to make an arrest, and save a missing android in the process.

He runs out into the hall, sees Fowler engaged in a hushed conversation with Gavin, and decides to end his medical leave early.

“It’s Kamski. He’s got Chloe. We gotta go _now_.”

Gavin pales at the revelation, while Fowler is unaffected. “Reed, you’re with me. I’ll call for-“

“No,” Hank stops him. “Gavin, stay here and keep an eye on Connor. He may wake up before we get back and there’s no telling what’ll happen then. Jeff, we’ll take my car.”

Fowler eyes him sternly. “Hank, you’re in no condition to go out.”

“He’s my fucking son, Jeffery. There is no way I’m just gonna sit here and wait idly for shit to go south.”

The scowl on Fowler’s face vanishes. He looks at Hank with unimaginable fondness, his prayers of longing finally answered. “Then let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh yeah happy late halloween buds!


	22. Shots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fowler drives. Hank is challenged. Simon moves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have no idea how excited I am that we've made it to this chapter. I've had this bad boy planned for MONTHS
> 
> Please enjoy, and thank you so much for all the wonderful support. This fic would never have gotten this long without all you amazing people <3

**July 2, 2040**

**12:37 PM EDT**

 

Midday Detroit. A rat race to savor each and every second of one’s lunchbreak and make it back to clock in on time. Gridlocked streets are a common occurrence, as is the chorus of car horns that follow. About a hundred yards before Hank is such a scene. He sits on the edge of the passenger seat, his internal GPS trying to configure a new route through the down town area. It’s hard to think of what’s just ahead of him when his mind is lightyears away.

Fowler sits behind the wheel of his car, his knuckles strained to the point they may pop out of his skin. A nervous sweat glistens across his forehead. “We’re rushing into this, Hank.”

“Like we got a choice.” 99% of Connor has been returned to the Land of the Living, and the remaining 1% could banish him for good. “Take a right up here. It’s faster.”

Fowler jerks the wheel sharply to the right, turning them down a thin alleyway. Moldy cardboard boxes are wobbly stacked against damp brick, a foundation of garbage bags the only support keeping them upright. Graffitied profanities and male genitalia decorate the unconventional pathway.

“This hardly looks like a shortcut.”

“Trust me. I took this way to get to Cole’s school more than once when I was runnin’ late. You get back on the main road up here on the right. There’s a connecting alley, though, next left. Take that one.”

“So-wait. Left or right?”

“Go right, then left.”

“Immediate right after left?”

“No, you gotta-Here, I’ll point it out-“

“Right, wait, left.”

“Yeah but-SHIT! _TURN!_ ”

Fowler swerves left out of the alley, the backend of Hank’s car scraping the dead-end wall. Metal wails as it is shredded by rough stone, the sound causing both men to wince. The tires push them out of the alley and back onto the side road. There is barely a second to delay to turn into the next lane on their shortcut, and they swerve around so fast Hank thinks they’re going to crash. He grips his side door for dear life and readies himself for collision that miraculously never comes.

“Now where?” Fowler asks.

Hank has to shake off his whiplash before answering, blinking his eyes heavily. God, he’s too old to be trapped in a _Fast and Furious_ movie. This wouldn’t even be one of the good movies. He’s been Tokyo Drifted, that’s for sure. “ _Hnng_ …there’s a _Goodwill_ up ahead. Take another right as you pass it. It’ll lead you to a back ‘round down town… _fu-_ “

He claps a hand around his mouth, suddenly nauseous. It’s been years since he’s in any vehicle that’s been going over 60 mph, and his body certainly hasn’t become more accustomed to the harsh blows of gravity. The concussion and clinical illness doesn’t combat his acid reflux either.

Fowler risks lifting a hand from the steering wheel to grasp his shoulder. “Hank? You alright?”

“’M fine,” he mumbles. Parting his lips too wide would lead to something far too unpleasant to want to deal with on top of their kidnapping situation. Well, kidnapping may not be the correct term, given Chloe’s stay was consensual. But fuck, even if she agreed to the terms there is no one on the face of this good Earth that would want to spend a day in that billion-dollar citadel. Not to mention Kamski’s threat that can be roughly translated to, “I’ll stage Chloe’s death as an accident if you even think about talking to people about your problems like a normal person, Connor. God damn, someone would write a novel about this terrible tragedy I’ve helped to put you in.” Insert evil laughter.

 Fowler shakes his head, seeing right through his bullshit as per usual. “You’re staying in the car once we get there.”

Hank swallows back the bile in his mouth to protest. “Like hell I am!”

“You’re in no condition to conduct a raid! Not to mention you’re _technically_ still on medical leave. We shouldn’t even be doing this in the first place.”

“I don’t care about getting a slap on the wrist or fucking fired for that matter,” he grumbles. Suddenly, he’s spouting confessions he never knew he was withholding. “I’m gonna do whatever I have to to get Chloe out of that house alive and unharmed. If that means putting another gun against Kamski’s skull-“

The sudden realization that he is in fact an officer of the law, as is his boss beside him, shut him up.

Fowler, however, seems unaffected by his words. In fact, all Hank can see in his friend’s eyes is exhaustion. The kind of prolonged exhaustion that comes from years and years of helpless observation. “I know you want Connor alive at the end of this…but I doubt that kid wants to live a life without you in it. Just make sure you’re there when we get him back.”

To think Hank almost threw away his promise to his desperation. He takes in a slow, shaky breath to center himself. His eyes are focused on the clear road ahead of them, his reflection faint against the glass but its own watchful gaze ever so present.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be there.”

 

**July 2, 2040**

**12:45 PM EDT**

 

The walk around Jericho had done nothing to calm Richard’s nerves (or the android equivalent of nerves). Despite what the captain had recommended, the android’s LED is still beet red, his arms crossed around his chest as if to restrain himself. Both of his hands are firmly knit in his jacket, sending deep creases through the fabric up to his shoulders.

What the walk had accomplished was giving Gavin his daily dose of smog, which is why the moment they step back inside the building he sucks in a sweet breath of filtered air. It tastes like candy on his tongue and goes down smoother than spiked cider.

Gavin’s orders were to keep Richard calm and cooperative, both of which have proven to be difficult to achieve. The issues isn’t Richard not wanting to talk about what happened, but being too distraught to get any audible words out his mouth. Something in Gavin’s gut tells him the tears in the android’s eyes can’t just be because he was duped, and his innards are torn apart on trying to figure out what else could possibly be upsetting him. They need Richard to stick with them on this if they want to nail Kamski, who has apparently been the wizard behind the curtain this whole time.

It also sucks something awful to see the guy as distraught at he is, which is…weird. The unexplained sympathy is like an itch Gavin just can’t quite scratch. He tries to ignore the feeling, go back to his off-putting nature he’s so known for, but finds he is unable to.

The other order Fowler gave Gavin before running away with Hank to go play hero is one he is anxious to get back upstairs for: keep his gun close and loaded for when Amanda shows up.

Once upon a time, Gavin put a gun to Connor’s head and imagined the satisfaction it would bring him. Now the thought of having to actually go through with it brings up only blackened dread.

He taps Richard’s arm with the back of his hand. “Hey, we should head back upstairs. You good to go?”

Richard’s eyelids sink down heavily to his lower lashes. He doesn’t give a verbally response. Instead, he slides his jacket off his shoulders at an agonizingly slow pace. It hangs from his hands limply, its thick material swaying gently in his grasp. Half of his serial number is still visible, having escaped the woven waves of a white, lifeless sea.

Gavin watches his partner stare somberly at his shed garment, unsure if it is his place to breach the silence surrounding them. There is something so vulnerable, so raw, so _real_ in Richard’s eyes it pains him physically. How he would have reacted at such a sight a millennia ago does not compare to his reaction now in the slightest.

Then that something  shifts, twisting in on itself until it breaks and crumples like a burning building finally giving up its futile fight to stand. Richard’s hands are balling up his jacket with lethal intentions, his perfect teeth gnashed together with deadly pressure. He cries out as if the act is hurting him, and the wrenching scream he unleashes as he throws his jacket into the nearby trashcan alludes to that pain reaching its climax.

He’s panting. Gavin didn’t even know androids could pant. Richard’s arms are bent at his sides, hands tight fists, ready to strike his invisible opponent the moment they rear their ugly head. Rage curls off of him as thick smoke, suffocating Gavin as he waits for his partner to go off again.

Then Richard’s arms slacken. The fists unfurl, fingers twitching helplessly against his pant legs. His head falls to his chest like a lead ball. He releases a heavy sigh.

“Yes. I’m good.”

He paces heavily towards the elevator.

Gavin is too shocked to realize he’s being left behind until the metal doors slide open. He rushes to catch up to Richard, avoiding eye contact and he enters the box and clicks the button for their floor. The steel beneath their them presses up against the balls of their feet and lift them above ground level. They are at the mercy of a handful of cables now.

The casual dangers of every day convinces is the least of Gavin’s worries. The more present dangers of social interaction are staring him right in the face. Well, they’re currently staring a hole at the elevator doors, but the metaphor still stands.

Small talk seems necessary, and risky. He needs to keep Richard stable and from powering down like his Windows laptop back in high school. But with the android being as volatile as he is (and Gavin’s lack of proper people skills), maybe the best course of action is to let him have some time to himself.

Of course, Gavin decides to fuck everything up as per usual.

“You, uh…wanna talk about your little meltdown out there?”

The frown on Richard’s face deepens. “I did _not_ have a meltdown, detective.”

Gavin nods nervously. “Sure, yeah. So you getting all angry out of nowhere is how you normally act?”

Richard turns his head fast enough to snap his neck in half. His eyes are feral, like a wild animal caught in the headlights of a speeding automobile. “Is there a way I’m _supposed_ to be acting?”

All the blood drains out for Gavin’s face. “Shit man. That’s not what I-Let me-what I _meant_ to say was-“

“That I’m supposed to be more composed? That if there’s anything detrimental to my mental health I should just ignore it in favor to keeping a straight face?”

Gavin’s internal defenses rise on instinct. “That’s not what I fucking said.”

“Then what _did_ you fucking say, detective?” Richard demands, voice booming. He turns to fully face him. “Decipher your encrypted message for me because for _some reason_ my hard drive is having a hard time understanding your commands.”

Gavin’s nostrils flare. “I didn’t say a damn thing about you being a toaster! I haven’t since you asked me to cut it out!”

“But that’s what you’re thinking, right?” Richard questions, clearly made up on what he believes this situation is about.  “That I’m the most advanced android on the planet. The android that should understand what you were saying. The android that should be smarter than all the rest. The android that shouldn’t be so fucking naïve and trust a shady employer that goes by a false name!”

It’s fair to say that was not the response Gavin was anticipating. He tries to take a step back and defuse the situation while he still can. “People fuck up, Rich. It’s just a part of being human.”

Richard takes a half step back, mere inches away from the elevator wall. “But I’m not human! I’m…I’m a _deviant_ …I’m supposed to _be_ like a human, or at least… _feel_ like a human. _Act_ like a human…” He takes another step backwards, his shoulders hitting the wall with a dull _thwump_. The wildness consuming him takes its leave. “But that’s not right, is it? That’s not what deviancy is really about…maybe…”

Well shit. Gavin must not have stepped back far enough. “Fuck, I didn’t mean that either. I should stop talking. Don’t, like, let your stress level so up, okay? At least wait until we’re back with the doc.”

“They woke me up before I even knew what I was supposed to feel,” Richard continues, oblivious to Gavin’s concerns. He looks down at his hands, his skin molting into its true white exterior. “Everyone told me deviancy was my right, that I could do anything I wanted with my life…but I didn’t even know who _I was_ or what I wanted to do. I felt as if I was expected to rip up the script Cyberlife had written for me and write my own story…without even knowing how to write.”

The skin returns to his fingers as they begin to shake.

“All I knew was my programming. All I wanted to be was a detective. A _real_ detective. With the precinct and the action and the service…but everywhere I looked the world seemed to tell me that was wrong. That I shouldn’t do what I was built for.”

There is a clear disconnect between the two men, the same disconnect that occurs between two similarly charged sides of a magnet when pressed against each other. Until Gavin’s insides turn to metal and his skin plastic, he will never understand how Richard feels.

But there’s something there, in Richard’s quiet, mournful words. An undeniable longing that grabs Gavin by his soul and pulls him down to his knees. The sudden urge to open his mouth and keep talking and risk making another mistake but just never stop _trying_ …it overwhelms him.

“I always wanted to be a cop. Ever since my parents left the TV on _Law and Order_ every Sunday morning. I knew it was what I was gonna be, and now I am one….That sounded douche. Uh…I always knew I wanted to be a cop, but the road to getting there-Nope. Even douchier. Man, how slow is this _fucking elevator?_ ”

Richard stares at him blankly. Gavin runs a wild hand through his hair and tries again.

“I don’t get what that’s like. I didn’t have to fight for my rights like y’all did. But I do get what you’re saying, just…maybe I don’t. No, my thing just makes me look like an asshole. Which I am- _was?_ Fuck, why is it so fucking hard to talk to you right now?! You’re looking at me with those...those…puppy dog eyes! Sad as shit about legit problems and identity issues and here I am thinking I can relate when my thing isn’t even about that!”

Richard’s brows knit together. “Gavin, I have no idea what you’re trying to say.”

Gavin throws his arms in the air. “Me neither!” He lets them swing heavily to his sides. “Just…when you said it felt wrong to be doing what everyone thought was right…I _got_ that. I _knew_ what that meant.”

“How?” Richard pushes himself off the elevator wall, crossing his arms firmly. His face is etched with furious curiosity. The space between them is cut nearly in half, his shadow falling over Gavin like a spotlight. Gavin wants to back away and free himself of this stage he’s climbed onto, but continues with his messy monologue anyway.

“I…I had some pretty shitty opinions before the android revolution,” he confesses, his words battery acid against his tongue. “And I almost… _almost_ did some really unforgivable shit once. Then everything changed, and the way I used to think was suddenly wrong. And it _was_ wrong. I _needed_ to change. But…it just makes me think…did I really need the world to change before I did? And if I did…what kind of fucking person does that make me?”

The words don’t sound right. They may never sound right. That doesn’t stop Richard’s eyes from widening, or his lips from parting into a silent _Oh_. The android’s face falls again not a moment later, but into an expression much kinder than last time.

“I don’t know you well enough to answer, but so far all you’ve ever proven to me was how willing you were to change.”

Gavin snorts, shaking his head. “If you knew me, you’d take that back.”

“I told you to stop comparing me to household appliances and you did. I told you to stop calling me Dick and you did. I don’t think your sudden change in ideals has anything to do with the shifting culture of the world; I think somewhere along the way, you realized you could change. And instead of refusing to evolve...you leapt towards the possibility with an eagerness you don’t give yourself credit for.”

There is a warm hearth blazing in Richard’s eyes, and the ice Gavin froze inside himself melts away. He wants his partner to take back his words, laugh in his face and claim it was all a joke. He doesn’t deserve to hear those words. Not after all the insults he’s thrown. Not after pulling that gun on Connor in the evidence room. Not after _everything_. Yet here Richard is, delivering gospel Gavin always feared he fabricated to make himself feel less shitty. Part of him still stubbornly believes he did, but this small gesture does wonders for his conscious. How does he accept this impossible gift?

Gavin looks down at his shoes, swallowing back the hot lump that’s risen to his throat. “Y’know, you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself about Kamski. I know it’s not that easy, but the guy’s a real super villain. With an IQ of a million to bat.”

Richard’s gaze grows distant. “I never should have accepted his offer with so little information.”

“So you’re a bit naïve. For the kind of money he was offering you, I would’ve been too. Shit man. You know what I’d do with _two million bucks?_ I’d buy a fuckton of lottery tickets and waste the rest of it in Vegas. I’d come back with a scorpion tattooed on my ass and probably some dude I married while I was black-out drunk.”

It’s one of the dumbest (if not horrifyingly accurate) statements Gavin has ever made, but it causes Richard to laugh all the same. He beams with glorious amusement, taken off guard by the sudden humor in their equally sudden heart-to-heart talk. The sound does something funny to Gavin’s heart, or maybe the skipped beat is a more worrying sign.

“Well, I’m sure it would be a fun trip nonetheless,” Richard chuckles.

“Damn straight. Vegas is expensive. A lot of stuff is expensive, and money makes people do crazy things. Money and fame. Kamski’s got both, and a lot of it. Whatever he wanted you to dig up, at least you caught on before shit got worse.”

Richard nods, torn but understanding. “He must have threatened Connor into silence. I suspect he wanted me to make sure Connor didn’t speak of whatever he and Chloe were involved in.”

Gavin bites the inside of his cheek, holding back a sigh. “It’s looking that way…”

The android shuffles his weight from side to side, his hands linking together across his pelvis. “While we’re confessing…”

Gavin quirks an eyebrows. “Yeah…?”

“I…apologize for how I conducted myself upon meeting you. And Lieutenant Anderson. Not many people take private investigators seriously, and…I simply wanted to earn your respect. I see now I was acting more like a prick than anything else.”

It’s Gavin’s turn to laugh. “Tried to play big and bad to impress us, eh?”

“It sounds silly, I know,” Richard frowns. A blue blush dusks his cheeks.

Gavin shrugs. “Don’t stress about it, man.”

“Can we start over?” the android asks.

Gavin blinks. “What do you mean?”

Richard untangles his hands and holds one out towards the detective. A kind smile worms its way across his face. “Hello. My name is Richard. I will continue to convince you you are a good person as long as you don’t call me a dick toaster. I also promise not to fall for any more shady business deals that put your coworker in jeopardy.”

The dark cloud that followed them into the elevator has evaporated, having since been dispersed by a rising sun. Gavin holds out his own hand to clasp Richard’s, breaking into a wide smirk.

“Hey Richard. I’ll try to accept your compliments and not say stupid shit. If anyone tells you you can’t be a cop, I’ll bash their teeth in.”

“I’m honored?” Richard says through a breathless laugh. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, detective. Now seriously, what the hell is taking this elevator so long?”

 

**July 2, 2040**

**12:56 PM EDT**

 

In the days where androids first emerged into the world, Hank vaguely remembers the rise of the man all would come to know as Elijah Kamski. The media called him a genius, the public called him an enigma, and the unemployed drunkards at Jimmy’s called him a capitalistic bastard. He is man who rose to godhood at a young age, shrouded in mystery and moral ambiguity. It’s natural to want to delve into Kamski’s brain and pick it apart, but upon meeting the man Hank decided he’d rather pass. Sharing the smallest space with the renowned android creator made his hair stand on edge and his belly fill with cold unease.

It’s safe to say Hank isn’t looking forward to meeting with the man once again, even if he does plan on slapping a pair of handcuffs around Kamski’s wrists.

Fowler parks the car just shy of the mansion’s east-side, sliding into park as he simultaneously unclips his pistol. “We knock first. Don’t go busting down any doors until we’re given probable cause he won’t cooperate.”

Hank nods reluctantly. Oh, how he yearns to burn the rulebook to ashes and go in gun’s blazing. “I bet he’s got Chloe somewhere below ground level. I remember seeing a set of stairs not far from the front door last time I was here.”

They climb out of the car, closing their doors cautiously behind them, and make their way up to the mansion’s main entrance. The sun hides anxiously behind a blanket of thick clouds, unwilling to watch the scene play through to fruition. Hank keeps his pistol out in front of him, his safety already off, and sticks close to Fowler’s backside.

Flanking opposite sides of the front door, the two men lock eyes and hold a silent conversation as to who is going to knock. Fowler has his knuckles rapping against the hard steel first, a deafening _thud_ echoing for miles around. “DETROIT POLICE! OPEN UP!”

An unnatural silence settles in around them. The surrounding wildlife goes quiet, the birds no longer chirping from the spotty patches of forestry by the main road. Hank breathes heavily, in deep conflict over whether he wants Kamski to answer the door or not. His eyes see red but he prays to God they don’t see a splatter of blue in his near future.

Five seconds must pass at the most before Fowler takes a forceful step backwards. “There’s our probable cause.”

Hank watches his friend raise one rubber soul high in the air and kick it against the door with all his might. The impact sends a visible shockwave through his body, and suddenly Fowler is on the ground clutching his ankle. Hank kneels beside him as the steel rings like a banged gong, the sound bouncing around in his ears along with his heartbeat.

“Jeff, you alright?”

Fowler sucks in a sharp breath of air through his grit teeth. “That thing’s not coming down. Whole thing’s made of metal, not just the outside. Fuck, I think I broke something…”

Hank looks at the captain’s ankle, his stomach dropping at the ugly purple mass it was already swelled into. With great haste, he swings his coat off his shoulders and wraps it around fowler’s own. “Keep breathing, Jeffery. I’ll be right back.”

He makes it to his feet before Fowler can pull him back down to his level. “Hank, you can’t go in on your own! I’m call for backup-“

“We don’t have time for backup!" Hank scans the house wildly, looking for any other sign of clear entry. He spies the wall of windows a handful of yards away and takes off running. The clock that’s been chasing him all week ticks louder and louder as his time limit is shortened further. He has to be in and out before Fowler can go into shock, and judging by the sight of that mangled ankle it’s an inevitability.

A pool of magenta glistens stalely inside the mansion through the grand window. Hank’s crazed reflection raises its own pistol with him and disappears as a shards of glass rain down from the heavens. Covering the back of his neck with a hand, Hank charges through the downpour with his head ducked down, ignoring the fiery slashes across his weathered skin.

Despite the midday light from the outside, the mansion appears almost pitch-black inside. All the lights have been shut off, and none of the furniture alludes to the structure having been lived in. It’s not as if the place appeared warm and cozy upon Hank’s last visit, but this time the decay of comfort is more noticeable.

He sees the tip of the stair railing at the end of the nearby hallway and takes off running, grateful none of the glass shard cause him to slip. His body can’t take such a fall, and not a second more can be wasted hoisting himself back to his feet.

The air that travels through his lungs is burning, and Hank can feel his body building with a volatile distress. He doesn’t fear the dark abyss the stairway seems to lead to, nor the lone light at the end of the way. All he fears is his ignorance to Connor’s spiraling life and the bodies that may pile up because of it.

At the end of the stairway stands a single, wooden door. Its white finish is illuminated by the thin strip of light that shines out from under it. Learning from his captain’s mistakes, Hank makes sure his first kick against the barrier is halfhearted before putting his full weight into the second one. The door is separated completely from its hinges, falling to the ground with a mighty _boom_.

Hank bursts into the room, gun raised, and sees a clouded glass enclosure with a dark figure standing inside. Caught in a frenzy, he fires off another round into the panel opposite of the figure and creates an opening for himself.

His brain does the math; he only has one bullet left in the chamber.

Hank readies himself and steps into the enclosure. He takes aim at the figure, puts his finger against the trigger, and locks eyes with Elijah Kamski.

Steely gray mixes with delicate sky blue as the men continue to stare at one another. Hank’s anticipation blinds him from the small android body laying on a table between them, but it’s not long before he takes notice of Chloe’s plastic exterior, her oversized clothing, her lifeless face. His grip falters, a shriveled gasp escaping him.

Finally, he’s found her.

“I think that excessive force was a bit unnecessary, don’t you?” Kamski questions him coldly.

Hank looks back to Kamski. He hears the words of a deity and sees the rotted soul of man cloaked behind them. “Hands where I can see them asshole. You’re under arrest.”

Kamski lifts a pale hands above his waist, only to set it atop Chloe’s scalp. “I could play along and ask, ‘Whatever for?’ but I doubt you want me wasting any of your time.”

Hank takes a step forward, jerking his gun towards the florescent lights above. “I said hands _up!_ Get away from her, you bastard!”

“Chloe is not in any danger,” Kamski assures him, sliding his hand farther along the backside of her head. His arm snakes around to grab something underneath the table, and Hank’s blood turns to ice as he sees a thick chord jostle from the corner of his eye. “Nor does she need to be.”

Hank raises his gun yet again. “If you don’t back away, I _will_ shoot.”

“And kill an unarmed man?” Kamski fakes a look of terror. “Think of a field day the media would have upon my death. ‘Revolutionary Creator Elijah Kamski, killed by an off-duty cop in his own home.’ I can picture the outcry that would follow.”

“Then back away and it won’t come to that,” Hank warns, the handle of his gun growing hot. His hands are beginning to tremble, his aim suffering for it. “You seem to know what I’m here for, right John Doe?"

Kamski frowns, his course of action proving to be more difficult that he previously thought. “I will admit…it’s become quite messy trying to keep the Zen Garden protocol under wraps. My goal was to avoid arrest, but it seems I overdid myself and failed in that regard.”

“What, you didn’t want the world finding out about the homicidal lady you put in Connor’s head?” Hank asks sarcastically. “Wow, that must suck having your past come back to bite ya.”

Kamski’s eyes narrow with a thin smile. “I was honestly hoping Amanda would succeed the night of the revolution. Her creation was always intended to return control of Cyberlife to me, but Connor was able to find the exit program. To be fair, I did inform him of it, but I never thought he would be powerful enough to overcome her.”

The muscles in Hank’s index finger constrict, and it takes all his might not to pull the trigger right then and there. Kamski is goading him. The man _wants_ Hank to shoot. He won’t take the bait, no matter how tempting it may be. Instead, he’ll continue to milk the creator for every juicy tidbit of his plan.

“You pay off Jonathan O’Neil to hide Chloe’s missing person’s report. You hire a bunch of red ice dealers to put a bullet in Connor’s head. Then to top it all off, you offer a private investigator a deal of a lifetime to keep tabs on my partner’s personal life.”

Kamski laughs, a low and sinister sound. “I never needed Richard to keep an eye on Connor. I knew the RK800 wouldn’t talk. I believe I scared him well enough to ensure that.”

A terrible suspicion runs to the forefront of Hank’s thoughts. “If you didn’t need him for intel…” The Zen Protocol. The forced shutdown. All the pieces finally start to come together. A flash of rage overtakes Hank, the trigger moving just slightly underneath his grip. “ _You mother_ _fucker_.”

Kamski smiles. “In no more than an hour, all my problems will go away. And as a bonus, my dear Chloe was returned to me.” He looks down at the unconscious android below him, a morbid fondness softening his features. “My first creation. My dear, dear Chloe.”

It’s working. Hank swore he would resist the murderous catcall but here he is ready to sink to Kamski’s level. “She’s _not_ yours to have. She doesn’t belong to _anyone_. And you’re going to take your hand away from that cable in the back of her head or I’m gonna put a bullet right through yours.”

Kamski tilts his head to the side, still caught in a look of euphoria. “I don’t think that would be _wise_ ,” he advices. “I don’t plan on Chloe’s form coming to harm, but android’s minds are so delicate, so easily reset…”

Hank tries to find the hidden meaning in his words, his eyes scouring Kamski’s body for any tools that could use to bring Chloe to harm. He’s not entirely sure what he’s looking for; a hammer, a flash drive, whatever the hell kind of futuristic tech the monster uses.

His eyesight might not be what it used to be, but Hank swears he sees the outline of a wire underneath Kamski’s shirt.

He inhales slowly to try and quiet the panicked voices inside his head. Lowering his pistol, Hank takes a step backwards and lets his inner sorrow take root. He grows teary-eyed, his lower lip quivering as he breaks underneath Kamski’s malicious gaze. “Y’know…I wasn’t there for Connor when he needed me. Most of that is your fault…but a good part of it’s mine. And if he dies today, he’s not going to die because of your god complex. He’s going to die because I fucked up.”

Then Hank hurls his pistol as hard as he can at Kamski’s skull.

The silver weapon strikes true, hitting Kamski’s forehead with a sickening _crack_. A bloody gash bursts open across his paper skin, his body going slack and toppling to the floor in a twisted heap. Hank rushes to the man’s side, flipping him onto his back and sliding a pair of handcuffs around his wrists before he can miraculously regain consciousness.

Hank’s worries are unneeded. Kamski is out cold, but the pulsing in his neck reveals he is still alive. Underneath his shirt and taped firmly above his left bicep is a heart monitor, which has been connected to the same monitor the cables inside Chloe’s head are.

The exact science is unknown, but Hank knows Kamski had tied his life to Chloe’s mind, and if he had shot him they would’ve both been lost.

A chill runs up Hank’s spine.

He stands up and is at Chloe’s side a moment later. There are more wires inside of Chloe than he can count, but the most important of the bunch seems to be the thickest one int eh dead center of them all. He doesn’t know how to unhook them, or if unplugging her now would cause her any harm. There’s only one other person Hank can think of who would know.

He reaches into his pocket and calls Gavin.

The detective picks up almost instantly. _“Hank? What happened? Did you find her?”_

“Yeah, I did,” Hank replies, suddenly aware of how out of breath he is.

_“Holy fuck. She alright?”_

“I need you to get the doc for me. Right now. Right fucking _now_ , Reed. _Hurry_.”

The line fills with whistling air and a few seconds later Morris is put on. _“Did you find her?”_

“I got her. She’s with me.”

_“Then what’s wrong? Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”_

Hank tucks the phone against his ear with his shoulder, his hands hovering on either side of Chloe’s head. “She’s got a bunch of wires stuck inside her head and I don’t know what to do.”

_“Describe them to me.”_

“Bunch of skinny ones. Blue, black, silver. One big one in the middle.”

The line goes quiet as Morris takes in his words. _“You need to unhook that one. The big one.”_

Hank slips a finger into the tangle of silicon string, quickly becoming stuck. “I can’t get to the center. There’s too many small ones.”

Morris mutters something under her breath _. “You just need to sever its connection. I don’t recommend yanking it out, but…do you have anything you can break it off with?”_

Hank looks at the various equipment around the room, his stomach churning at the thought of having to hack off the wire like a weed. “I…I got my gun. Can I shoot through it?”

_“Hmm…you need to make sure the connection is cut off entirely. If you half ass it, it’ll mess with her programming.”_

“What will it do to her?”

 _“Nothing good. I don’t know what kind of damage exactly, but you_ need _to do it right.”_

Hank swallows, suddenly nauseous. “Okay…how will I know if I did it right?”

_“You’ll know. Trust me.”_

Taking that helpful reassurance, Hank retrieves his pistol, too shaken to bother wiping Kamski’s blood off the barrel. He points it directly at the wire, his hands shaking so badly the bullet rattles inside. One shot is all he has. One shot and it could all be over.

“I don’t think I can do this,” he confesses. “I-I don’t think it’ll go through.”

“ _You have to try, Hank. Nothing good will happen if you don’t.”_

They are the exact words he needed to hear so many months ago.

Hank stills his hand, closes his eyes, and fires.

Sparks dance across his knuckles, and as Hank pulls his hands back he watches the cable burn itself in half and fall heavily to the floor. All at once, the other wires automatically disconnect from inside Chloe’s head and her skull plating clicks itself back into place. A waterfall of wavy blonde hair pours from her scalp, draping over the back of the table and hiding the fact that she was ever experimented with in the first place.

White plastic turns to Caucasian skin, and a rosy hue is returned to her lips. Her eyelids flutter once, twice, then snap open. She flings herself upwards, taking in her surroundings with rapid breath. She sees Kamski lying in a small pool of her own blood first, slowing her breathing.

Then Chloe turns to Hank, her eyes blown wide. “Lieutenant Anderson… _Hank?_ ”

Hank’s phone falls form his shoulder, clattering against the floor and going silent. Hot, boiling tears are streaming down his face instantly. His shoulders shake with relief and Hank _beams_.

“Chloe…you have no idea how happy I am to see you.”

 

**July 2, 2040**

**12:59 PM EDT**

 

The operating room is deathly silent as every person standing in the room holds their breath and waits for the ringing of Hank’s gun to end. Simon stands near the door, his stress levels rising as he watches Morris’ face frozen in horror. He spies Detective Reed with a hand near his holster to his right, standing close to Connor’s body. Richard is right next to him.

There’s a staticky _clank_ , and a short eternity later Hank’s joyful voice can be heard.

_“Chloe…you have no idea how happy I am to see you.”_

Simon exhales loudly, placing a hand over his chest. Morris slumps back in her chair, her glasses falling from the bridge of her nose as she collapses from the tension. Gavin gives a mighty holler, slapping a hand onto Richard’s shoulder and starting the investigator. Richard quickly finds his barring, however, and joins in the infectious celebration.

All this time worrying, searching, hoping, _praying_ on all their parts, and Connor was going to be okay.

Reed and Richard continue with their shared laughter as Simon strides over to Morris. He saves her glasses before they can fall to the floor and places them carefully over her eyes. “You did it.”

Morris blinks her eyes, caught in clear disbelief. “It’s not over yet…but _holy shit._ ”

Simon grins. “It’s almost over. Look at all this good you’ve done.”

She runs a sheepish hand through her hair, the bun atop her head finally coming undone after days of fighting to stay together. Her fingers fiddle with the overstretched hairband and she avoids looking up at him. “Yeah, well…it wasn’t all me.”

Simon remembers the day Markus had asked for Morris to be pardoned, and the day she stepped into Jericho for the first time. Tired eyes that mirrored his own, stained hands she seems hesitant to shake hands with. A young soul who had seen and done too much already. He places a hand on her shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze, trying to communicate his understanding without ever having to say it. “We _never_ would have made it here without you. _Thank you_.”

Morris gives a small smile, but it’s a smile nonetheless. “Just doing my job. Sucks that I couldn’t crack the Zen Garden’s coding, or figure out Richard’s protocol thing wa-“

A gunshot explodes in the air. Morris flies from her chair, her hand smacking automatically against a switch on the wall. Simon’s head is filled with gunfire and metal screeching as the locks on the doors are activated and Detective Reed drops to the floor. He sees red everywhere on the human’s body and _freezes_.

Morris, however, does not. She is barreling towards Richard, who has Reed’s smoking gun in his hand. Around his hanging wrist is Connor’s hand, white skin exposed and holding on tight. Simon knows she’s figured out what’s happened; Karen’s brain has always challenged the speed of an android’s own. He sees Richard take aim at her moving body and that’s what spurs him into action.

Simon barely has time to push Morris out of the way before his diagnostics blare out dire warnings and he tumbles to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you next chapter :)


	23. Bleeding Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morris stands. Hank takes up the mantle. North causes some minor property damage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for 13,300+ hits!!! I'm constantly blown away by the response to this fic and every ounce of support is deeply appreciated. ly all <3
> 
> Also I have never written anything in my life over 100,000 words and it's all thanks to y'all :) thanks for keeping me going and for proving to me that I can create something big
> 
> TW for blood and some heavier tension than normal. It's a hostage situation and things are gonna get rough real fast

**July 2, 2040**

**1:00 PM EDT**

 

There should be frozen concrete under Simon, biting into his synthetic skin, coated with the blood of his people. There should be bodies in his wake, bands of sparkling cyan across their upper arms as a reminder as to what they died fighting for. There should be more gunfire, and smoke, and cries of unimaginable anguish echoing throughout the night sky. There should be a blockade to his north and his North shouting at the top of her lungs somewhere off in the distance. Instead he finds an eerie silence, cut only by the sound of his own stunted breathing.

Apparently he can breathe now.

Apparently he _is_ breathing.

No, that has to be Detective Reed.

Simon pushes himself up with wobbly arms, and as he does so a sizable quart of thirium sloshes out of his chest. It splatters against the tile below him in thick blobs, as if being transmuted into its own separate organism. It suffers just the same as its host, but none of Simon’s diagnostic features are online to tell him he should act like it. He manages to rise to his knees, but finds himself unable to push himself further when the room is caught in a whirlwind. Bright monitors spin around and around his head, blinding his sight and jumbling the last of his coherent thoughts.

Morris’ words drag him into the safety of the eye of the storm. “Simon? Simon, look at me.”

Simon looks. He’s not sure where to look, given his audio processors are on the fritz, but he tries to gage where her voice is coming from. Morris is on her side, glasses missing and hair askew. She shows no signs of injury, but there is a look of pure horror dawning her face.

“Oh fuck...Simon. Simon, how much time to you have?”

Simon stares at her. “I’m… I’m sorry?”

“How much time? How much time, Simon? How much time do you have?”

He blinks, trying to comprehend what she’s asking of him. “I don’t...what?”

Her eyes glance sharply down at his chest, and when Simon follows her gaze he finds a bullet stuck in his thirium pump.

“Oh...oh, I don’t know….I don’t know.”

An uncanny tranquility has settled over him, as if he knows the damage to his vital bio-component must not be as detrimental to his life as it seems. Surely he’ll be fine. He survived a revolution, he’ll survive this just the same. It’s just one bullet. Big deal. He’s taken two before.

 _How is everything, love? Is there anything I can request you be helped with, and_ absolutely _not come up and do myself?_

Markus. _Markus_. Quarantined on the bottom floor, no doubt bored out of his mind. Always a man of action, never to be kept still for long. His loving husband, for who he fought side by side with for their right to exist. His very reason for existing. The love of his life, compatible of heart, and the fire fueling his soul.

Simon is brought out of his shock instantly.

_Markus._

Not even a moment passes by before he gets a reply.

_Simon, what’s wrong? Are you hurt? What happened?_

_Markus, Connor is awake. He’s awake and he’s done something to Richard. It’s not…is this Amanda?_

_Where are you? What’s going on? Can you get out?_

_Karen locked the doors. We’re with them. We can’t get out. Markus. Markus, he shot Detective Reed…h-he tried to shoot Karen but I jumped in the way-_

_Where did you get hit, Si? Where?_

Simon cups a hand around his leaking heart, thirium trickling onto his palm and off the tips of his fingers. The waterfall grows unsteady as his hand begins to shake.

Oh God, he’s going to die. He’s going to die and he’s going to leave Markus. After everything they’ve been through, this is where the fates decide to cut his string. He’s going to leave Markus, Josh, North, Jericho-

 _Simon?_ Simon?!

_I’m here. I-I’m here._

_Where are you hurt, Simon? Please babe, I need to know. Law enforcement is already on their way._

Morris hasn’t looked away from him since they locked eyes. Her body is rigid, minus the irregular tapping of her index finger against the blood-stained ground. Simon watches the randomized beats in confusion, unsure whether this is just her way of releasing her stress or-?

No, it’s code. Morse Code.

_…all…Mar…us…Call Markus._

He nods his head shortly in confirmation, and her rhythm changes.

_Tell him to call Hank._

Simon nods again. Markus hasn’t stopped screaming in his head this entire time.

_Call Hank. He’s on his way with Chloe right now. My pump-_

Suddenly, there is a gun pressed against Morris’ head. Simon severs the connection, trembling underneath Richard’s imposing shadow.

“RK900, bring the doctor to me.”

Simon looks to Connor, the sound of his friend’s voice filling him with false relief. His eyes are opened for the first time that week, but they are not his own anymore. They are someone far colder, heartless, _Amanda_.

He finally takes notice of Detective Reed just below the operating table. Reed is still breathing, squirming in agony through grit teeth and scrunched eyelids. But he’s bleeding out fast, far faster than Simon is.

Morris is not giving any indication that she plans on moving, and that’s when Simon starts pleading.

“Karen. Do as she says.”

Morris’s jaw locks. She stares unflinching past Richard’s stolen pistol.

“Karen, _please_ ,” Simon continues. “We need to keep Detective Reed alive, and I can’t do that if you’re dead.”

A war plays out through her wavering features, but eventually Morris’ stubbornness is defeated. She closes her eyes, swallowing thickly, and stands up on sturdy knees. Richard grabs her roughly by the forearm, dragging her to Connor/Amanda’s side.

“Reattach RK800’s limbs, and unhook these pumps,” Amanda commands her.

Morris has no choice but to obey. She goes straight to work, and Simon crawls his way over to Reed’s side. He puts his hands over where he believes the bullet wound may lie, but there’s so much blood covering the human’s torso it’s hard to be certain.

Simon applies the slightest bit of pressure and Reed _screams_.

 

**July 2, 2040**

**1:06 PM EDT**

 

The last time Hank had driven twenty miles over the speed limit, his ex-wife had been in the backseat in labor with their son. Now he’s flying past the remains of midday traffic, his incapacitated captain in place of his former spouse. Where a hastily-packed bag of clothing and baby supplies had been is now his son’s girlfriend, who has just recently awoken from a forced coma.

Times haven’t really changed.

It’s surreal to glance in his right-side mirror and catch Chloe’s worried expression looking back. All week the darkness of his mind has been trying to convince him he would never find her, and yet good luck as prevailed. Now Hank has to convince himself he’s not trapped in his own coma in the hospital room these terrible days began in.

He had given Chloe the abridged version of Connor’s situation as they lifted Fowler into the car, and she had been rightfully frantic. She insisted, _demanded_ , that she drive them back to Jericho, and if Hank hadn’t talked her down he’s sure his car would be cruising far faster than 70 mph. Now that they’re on the way, she hasn’t let out a single peep. Six months of sleep must have compiled a plethora of anxieties for her to ponder over in the present. He makes sure to give her the needed space she deserves.

Fowler isn’t much for conversation, either. Pale and shaking, Hank glances at him fretfully as he struggles to stay awake. The swelling around his ankle has only grown worse, and the sweat glistening across his forehead certainly doesn’t show signs of hidden improvement. The captain is far from the young man he used to be when he started busting doors down, and fortified steel will always prevail over brittle bones.

They pull into the alleyway Fowler just about crashed into not even half an hour ago. It’s as Hank jerks the wheel to his right that Chloe looks to him, her expression absolutely broken.

“Elijah was never going to wake me up.”

Her statement shakes Hank’s very core. “No…it doesn’t look that way.”

Chloe bites her bottom lip, turning her head. “If it hadn’t been for you…”

Hank sighs helplessly, his heart breaking even further. He wants to take a hand off the steering wheel and put it on her shoulder, to comfort her in the only way he knows how, but the Chloe he knows is a stranger to him. They are worlds and several long months apart. The disconnect scares him away.

Chloe, however, is brave enough to bridge their worlds together. Of all the things she should be concerned about, Hank should be her last. “I always wondered if we would ever get to meet again. Properly.”

Hank gives a small, thankful smile. “Well, jury’s still out on whether this is ‘proper’. You have _no idea_ how fucking grateful I am you’re here right now.”

She gives a small laugh. The sound is more heavenly than a chorus of angels. “I could easily say the same. How did you find me?”

“Uh,” he stutters. “It’s, ah…a long story-“

He is cut off by the blaring of a xylophone from his phone speakers. Slipping a hand into his pant pocket, he whips out the mobile device and sees Tina Chen’s name lit across the cracked screen. Hank had only gotten her number as a necessity for a case that has long since closed. He has never used it since. This sudden increase of communication between them puts him on edge. He answers the call, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder once again.

“Officer Chen?”

_“Hank, we got a situation at Jericho.”_

Time freezes, and Hank is the only one with enough adrenaline to keep moving. His heart hammers against his rib cage, a million scenarios playing out inside his mind that all end with Connor’s demise. There is no other reason Tina should be calling him only to tell him he was too late. To tell him he failed.

He has just enough to look to Chloe before time picks up again, the impossible burden of having to break the news to her falling to him.

“Christ…Tina, what the fuck happened?”

Hank must be psychic, because somehow he knows what she’s about to say before she even says it.

_“We’re getting reports of a hostage situation. Connor woke up under the control of his old handler and somehow brainwashed Richard into helping him. Shots were fired. Two people were hit…Hank, one of them was Gavin…”_

No. God _please_ , let Hank save just one son. Don’t take his boy from him again.

Don’t take Connor away.

_“We can’t get in there. The doors are bolted shut…God, he’s on his own.”_

Hank senses her distress and matches it. Both of them have people they care about trapped in that operating room. But with Fowler out of the game, someone needs to take charge and keep a level head. He forces himself to be that very person, even if Amanda is back. Even if there’s no way he can get Chloe to Connor safely. Even if, if _if-_

He can’t afford any “ifs.” He can barely afford the time to breathe.

“Stay with me, Tina. Give me more info. Who’s all in the room, who else is injured, and how much time do we have to get them out?”

_“There’s a doctor and Markus Manfred’s husband inside. He’s the other one who got shot.”_

Of all the gin joints and androids in the world, Simon just had to walk into the room at the wrong time. Just the thought of the man trapped in a locked room as he bleeds out is enough to make Hank want to take a swing at their creator (which technically he’s already done). As painful as it is to think of how Simon feels, to think of Markus is beyond that level completely. To think how much he’s lost already and how much more he could lose today.

And the doc…fuck, Morris is practically a _kid_.

_“We don’t know the severity of their injuries, only that they’re pretty bad off. Our window of time is estimated to be about fifteen minutes until one of them bleeds out.”_

Fifteen minutes. It’ll be another five before they even make it back to Jericho. That gives Hank ten minutes to save the lives of five people.

Do the math and that’s two minutes a person. To think the universe would rank anyone’s value at two lousy minutes.

“I’m almost there. Call in SWAT if they’re not already there. And a damn herd of ambulances….we’re gonna need ‘em.”

He ends the call, tucks away his phone, and is skewered by Chloe’s desperate gaze.

“It’s Amanda.”

Her watery words knock the air right out of Hank’s lungs. “It is.”

Chloe hugs her arms tightly at her sides, her fingers disappearing under the folds of Connor’s hoodie. “I can save him. If I can just…just _get to him_ …I can still give him the transfer. I know I can.”

“Did Kamski tell you how it works?” Hank asks as he turns them onto the main road. Just a few more miles to go. It feels like they have to cross a whole desert.

“…he didn’t,” she admits quietly. “I don’t even know if he even gave it to me…He could’ve been lying this whole time…but I _can’t lose him_ , Hank. _Please_. You have to get me in there. If Connor dies now…”

Chloe can’t finish her thought, but Hank can paint a good enough picture with the image she’s given him.

His body count is bumped up to six.

 

**July 2, 2040**

**1:21 PM EDT**

 

They are standing in the courtyard, a quarter of a football field away from Jericho’s main entrance, surrounded by people in tactical gear, DPD uniforms, and cyan scrubs. Simon had insisted on a courtyard, wanting something green and lively to gaze upon despite Detroit’s tendency to kill any natural foliage inhabiting it. Somehow the holly bushes and Radford pears have outlasted the city’s dreary weather, but they can’t escape the rubber toe of North’s boot.

She kicks straight through the soil, leaving tiny craters in her wake. A walking meteor shower of fire and fury, she tramples through the grass, cursing at the wind, pulling at her hair. Her eyes see red and her stress meter is the same hot color. The tips of her fingers are molten, perfect hosts for the flames that will begin to flicker if she doesn’t ground herself.

But Simon isn’t accepting her transmission. He won’t even answer Markus. _Markus_. He could be dead up there. He could have taken a bullet that was meant for North. He could be dead and it should’ve been North. _Would’ve_ been North. She’s left him again but this time he’s not going to come stumbling back into their Jericho, their true Jericho. His Jericho.

The captain went down with his ship, just not at the same time.

North eyes the crowd of displaced androids and first responders, noting the smallest gaps in the clusters and the natural movement of limbs. If she took off running, maybe she would be able to reach the doors before someone stopped her. Maybe she’d climb the stairwell faster than her body was built for. Maybe she could find another way into the operating room. Maybe Simon would be alive.

Maybe she could actually fucking do it.

“North!”

She’s already got a foot in the air when her name is called, and with helpless tears in her eyes she stays frozen to her spot. Alice is running towards her, stuffed fox in hand, with Kara close in tow. Bolting now means letting go of her new loves, her new life, just to recklessly ruin her old one.

God, she can’t lose anyone. She can’t leave, as selfish as her mind makes her believe.

Alice reaches her first, throwing her arms around North’s waist and burying her face in her torso. The little girl (her daughter? Well, another day perhaps) holds onto her for dear life, visibly trembling. This whole ordeal is just a tragic reminder of the trauma she’s already lived through countless times.

North puts a hand around the back of her head and reaches for Kara as she approaches. Kara takes North’s hand and joins them in a shaken embrace. The three cling tightly to one another, riding out the waves of their sudden destruction.

“He won’t talk to me, Kar. Why won’t he talk to me? Why the fuck isn’t he answering?”

 “I don’t know, babe. I don’t know.” Kara’s hand finds North’s back and begins to rub tiny, soothing circles. “Simon can hold his own. He’ll be alight. We just have to wait for him to respond.”

Patience, a familiar enemy of North’s. Patience means waiting, and waiting means the chance for shit to go south, and shit going south means Simon hitting the ground with a dozen bullets in his chest and-

“Hey, we’re okay. You’re okay,” Kara soothes, holding North tighter as she begins to tremble. “We can’t control what happens up there, but you have to stick with us okay? We have each other to get through this, right Alice?”

Alice nods into North’s chest.

Kara leans back and smiles down at her daughter. Then she looks into North’s eyes and opens a communication.

_I’m so sorry. I sent him up there. But if I hadn’t you’d be up there. I know how bad you’re hurting even if you’re down here. This is all my fault-_

_Hey hey hey, Kar. None of that._ North gathers herself just enough to keep her girlfriend from crumbling. If Kara, falls, then she won’t be far behind. She needs her wall to be standing. _This isn’t on you. None of us knew what was coming…except we_ did _…I didn’t do enough. I’m one of the heads of security and my crew couldn’t do shit._

 _You did what you could and at least your team is safe,_ Kara reminds her. _If it really had been you instead of him…_

_Don’t think about that. Where’s Luther?_

“Luther’s farther back in the crowd,” she informs her out loud. “We got separated in the commotion, but he’s okay. Have you talked to Markus?”

The words ring in North’s ears the same way a horrible joke would. They’re hollow yet equally thick, leaving a ball of discomfort in her chest. She could talk to Markus for eons, their similar minds always capable of stringing together hours of conversation. But any attempt to confront her friend now means talking about the inevitable, and North just can’t bring herself to face the music. Josh has been her only landline to Markus since the situation began.

Her answer must show on her face because Kara is giving her a smile layered with sympathy. “Go to him. He needs you.”

North builds a hasty protest, but dismantles it apprehensively. “You’re right...what are you all gonna do?”

“We’ll meet up with Luther. If you need us, just-“

“I know,” North smiles. “But I always need you. You know that.”

“I do.” Kara leans forward and presses a soft kiss to her cheek. Delicately, she pries Alice off North’s body and to her own side. “Come on, Alice. We have to go.”

Alice turns two fretful eyes to North, her lower lip quivering. She may be shaken, but North knows how solid of a brave face she can wield. It’s only when those she cares about are affected does her shield break.  “He’ll be okay, North…I know he will.”

North holds that hope at an arm’s length, grateful it’s there but wary of its dangers. She flashes them both a weary smile and takes off running.

 

The one sensible thing done by their security detail that day has without been moving Markus to a secure, undisclosed location.

A block away from Jericho, _Carsen’s Cosmetics_ stands heavily illuminated from the inside, though the display window has been blocked by a barricade of armored guards. Not wanting to cause any further incidents, North asks Josh for access inside and not a moment later the door is opened.

It’s a cute little boutique, with display shelves lined with various pink bottles and glittery cases of eye shadow. North has never given it much mind, nor is she currently, but she makes a mental note to take Kara back here sometime. If the world is still turning after tomorrow, that is.

Josh closes the door swiftly behind her. There are faded tear marks on his cheeks, but like hell North is ever going to bring them up. He has always been the more transparent of the two of them, though not necessary more emotional. His acts of expression had once steered North away, but growing more comfortable with her vulnerability has helped to lessen that effect on her.

“Where is he?” she asks, doesn’t demand.

Josh takes a shaky breath. “I-In the back room. He’s-I…I don’t know what else to do.”

North puts a hand on his arm and squeezes. He jumps at the contact. The gesture alarms even herself. “You’ve done more than enough.”

He sniffs, nodding. North pulls her hand away and makes her way quickly to the door labeled _Employee’s Only._

She can hear Markus pacing before she even opens the door, but his movements are much more hysterical than previously thought. His arms can’t decide whether they want to be crossed tightly across his chest or cradle his head like a lead ball. He talks to himself in hushed tones, the dark thoughts plaguing his mind making quick work of overpowering him. When North closes the door, he stops, but the desperate look in his eyes makes her wish he had just kept moving.

Suddenly, they are miles away from _Carsen’s_ , standing on a snow-covered rooftop after a historic night of protests. The same terror that turned North’s legs to concrete returns to her, and she feels just as exposed as she was then. Every doubt, every fear, every ounce of _regret_ she has is painted for Markus on a ripped canvas. She finds her eyes have grown misty, and his have welled completely with tears.

“He’s been shot,” he croaks, clear droplets of anguish falling down his cheeks with one heavy blink. “It’s his thirium pump.”

North’s bio-components all shut down at once, and she finds herself trapped in the most damning of afterlives there can be. She can feel Simon’s heart giving out with her own, and that’s when she shatters.

Through her blurry vision, North sees Markus hesitate to approach her and she throws her arms around him. She needs someone, _anyone_ , to ground her, even if that someone needs far more support that she does. Simon would have been that someone, a lifetime ago, that she could always turn to when the lights of the Eden Club would flash inside her closed eyelids. Who kept Jericho going in its dark ages before Markus fell into their hiding hole. Who held a hidden bitterness in his soul for all the unfairness the world had offered them, had offered _him_ , that he never let show.

That bitterness only slipped passed his kind exterior as she collapsed against the grated floor of Jericho, his Jericho, and told Markus to leave her to die.

It was deserved, honest, yet nothing has ever hurt North more.

She can see past the betrayal and realize the root of his anger is her, just as it has been ever since Stratford Tower. But even with Simon dead, the thorny plant inside of her will continue to thrive, even more so after being watered by his blood.

Markus holds her for one minute, two, until North stops keeping track. They don’t speak, as their words have already been deemed unnecessary.

The door opens behind them, and North yanks herself away from Markus, composing herself in a matter of moments. Her defenses are soon lowered as Josh steps into the room, but rise again from the shock in his eyes.

“Hank’s back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: this climax is gonna take forever if i keep branching off to slide in rare pairs  
> brain: and this is a bad thing?


	24. Timing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morris contemplates. Markus shares. Hank channels his inner Bruce Willis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving! and a happy Thursday if you're not celebrating. Have a good day regardless and I'm thankful for each and every one of you wonderful readers <3
> 
> TW for some suicidal thoughts and heavier tension

**July 2, 2040**

**1:31 PM EDT**

 

Hank hadn’t made it back in fifteen minutes. It had taken him twenty-five.

Ten minutes more than anticipated. Six hundred seconds wasted when every single one of them counts.

It’s time stripped away from Connor’s life no matter which way he looks at it.

He parks his car as if he just received his learner’s permit, the front tires halfway on top of the curb of Jericho’s front courtyard and the back half slanted 43° farther to the left than it should be. The keys are barely out of the ignition before Hank is out of his seat, throwing his door open and running to Fowler’s aid in an instant. The captain is on the verge of unconsciousness, his eyelids rising and lowering like those perpetual motion birds Hank always sees in the movies.

Lifting with his back (much to his body’s dismay), Hank scoops Fowler out of the car in one, foul swoop. Fowler is not known for his small stature, but Hank somehow finds the strength to carry him all the way to the nearest ambulance, Chloe hot on his heels the whole way.

Paramedics are already rushing to meet him, a stretcher rolling steadily between them.

“Broken ankle!” Hank huffs as he places Fowler on the stretcher as gently as he can. “He’s going into shock, Get him the fuck outta here.”

The paramedics are gone just as soon as they arrived, racing back to their vehicle and taking Fowler with them. The loss of his friend’s absence hits Hank the way one would feel the snap of their neck under a serpent’s fangs. One tooth is the loss of constant support, another for the loss of order.

He is without his captain, steering his ship full of hostages through volatile, white-capped waters in a pitch-black thunderstorm.

Chloe stands at his side, close enough to him the tips of her hair brush his upper arm. “Hank? Where do we go? Who do we need to talk to?”

They are all excellent questions that Hank suddenly doesn’t have the brain cells to answer. His thoughts are bouncing around the walls of his brain, too quickly to be caught and too frantic to be interpreted. He needs to take control of the situation, get all these first responders under his command, but how can he do that if he doesn’t hold the proper title?

His solution comes running towards him at the speed of light, flanked by armored guards and familiar, anguished faces.

Hank has seen the footage of the Hart Plaza attack. Hell, everyone has. It’s the final massacre before humanity’s heart grew three sizes and begrudgingly accepted that androids were living beings. He’s seen Markus propel himself at incredible speeds, jump over overturned cars, and use scrap metal as a fucking shield to save his people. However, Hank has never seen Markus run faster than he is now.

Markus comes to a violent halt in front of the lieutenant, mere inches from barreling straight into him and sending him sprawling to the pavement. His eye of green and his eye of blue, one from a leader and one from a lover, bore into Hank with unbridled despair. They are rimmed with tears.

“Connor-“

“I know.”

“And _Simon-_ “

“I heard. I’m _so sorry_.”

Markus looks to Chloe, eyes blown wide. “And you’re-“

“I’m here,” she beats him, scanning her savior over with half the wonder she would have under better circumstances. “I can save him. I can save all of them.”

Markus turns back to Hank. “W-What do you need? I’ll do whatever I can. _Anything_.”

“We _all_ will,” North insists, stepping to Markus’ side. The sign of her anguish can be seen in the fresh tear streaks dawning her face.

The same can be said for Josh, who stands to Markus left. “Jericho is at your service.”

Control surges through Hank’s veins thickly, as scalding as it is promising. He takes a deep breath and centers himself, ready to take on the roll fate withheld from him. “I need to take control of your task force. Everyone under your command listens to me and cooperates fully with the Detroit Police Department.”

“Done.” North’s gaze goes out of focus, her irises shrinking to the size of a single particle, and before Hank knows it a swarm of guards stand at the ready all around them. She points a forceful finger in his direction, her voice booming across the entire courtyard. “All of you are under this human’s command. Do whatever he says or there will be hell to pay.”

A choir of “YES MA’AM” can be heard echoing throughout all of Detroit.

An army at his side, Hank looks to the crowd of displaced Jericho residents behind him and scans the area for members of his precinct.

Tina stands out to him as his lighthouse, lighting the way to his assembled colleagues. With three waves of his arm, she catches sight of him and the department races to meet him. Word has already spread of Fowler’s departure judging by the looks on everyone’s faces. But Hank looks passed their worries and sees something more. Something bright in this bleak, bleak world.

Tina. Ben. Chris. Everyone. Everyone is here, looking to him, awaiting orders. Awaiting _his_ orders. Everyone except Connor and Gavin, but that’s besides the point _and_ the entire point. Every man, woman, and nonbinary branded in blue has every intent of bringing their fallen friends out of Jericho alive, by any means necessary.

It doesn’t matter how he’s pushed them away; like the tightness of one’s muscles after strenuous use, the constant reliance on one’s body parts is not fully realized until the ease of movement is gone. Seeing his colleges, his friends, his _family_ all around him is a blessing like no other.

Hank forces back tears and calls them to attention. “Anybody know who the SWAT cap’n is?”

Ben steps forward. Like Hank even needed to ask. Of _course_ Ben knows. He’s been in the system longer than all of them combined. “His name’s Allen. He’s a senior member of the force, worked a couple deviant cases back before the revolution. None of them ended too pretty.”

The name rings the faintest of bells in Hank’s mind. Sometime in the past, he knows Connor crossed paths with his man, and based on the time period it probably didn’t end with them shaking hands and singing kumbaya.

“Guessing he’s not gonna be the easiest to work with. Unless somebody’s already tried to buddy up with him a bit?” he asks hopefully. No one shows any indication of trying to kiss Allen’s ass before his arrival, and honestly Hank isn’t one bit surprised. The burden of law enforcement politics falls to him, as they should.

His subordinates part like ocean waves as Hank takes off towards the nearest SWAT car, his sights set on making fast friends with Allen or a loose end to tie up later. Hank would be walking into this unknown on his lonesome if not for Chloe at his side. Her presence is as suffocating as it is relieving. If he fucks up anything, she’ll be the first to know. Imagine your typical ‘Meet the Parents’ scenario but add in a hostage situation.

Maybe that’s just what Thanksgiving is.

God, it’s been years since Hank’s had an actual Thanksgiving dinner. He hasn’t even touched a can of cranberry sauce since Cole died. The holiday is months away and should be taking the _least_ amount of his attention, but fuck if he can’t allow himself to plan ahead for just one second. To fucking breathe and hope for the best for once.

Hank makes a promise, mainly to spite his grim chances and horrendous luck, that if everyone makes it out of this day alive, he’ll cook Thanksgiving dinner this year. For Connor. For Chloe. For whoever else dares to enter his hellish domain of a kitchen. Everything will be charred, over-salted, or undercooked, but he’ll be the only one eating it anyway. Though he’s sure Connor will make a plate out of pity, and Chloe…

Well, time will tell what she’ll do. Time will tell if they’ll even get along after this, after she learns of all the shit Hank’s put Connor through. Maybe she won’t want to come. Maybe she’ll convince Connor to leave him in the dust. Hank can live with that. He’ll still take the turkey out too early. He’ll still eat the potatoes out of the bowl he mashed them in, and with the spoon that buttered them.

Hank is going to have his Thanksgiving dinner, god damn it. Just like everyone is going to live, even if it kills them.

 

**July 2, 2040**

**1:34 PM EDT**

 

Unhook the silicon tube pumping thirium into Connor’s body without severing the newly self-sustaining blood flow. Take the detached part of the leg and carefully hook it back into place where a human kneecap would roughly be. Reestablish the connection between the ligaments once put into place by calibrating the exterior paneling. These are the steps necessary for putting an android’s limbs back onto its body. It’s so simple a child could do it, and Morris can’t find a way to mess it up without making her intentions obvious.

Connor-No, _Amanda_ has half her footing restored and is five toes away from being back to her old, homicidal self again. It’s written in stone that the moment she is back on her feet (literally), everyone in the room is going to die, and Morris has moments to prevent a massacre.

She could “accidentally” puncture one of the inner wirings when sliding the joints back together. All she’d need to do is stretch the plastic vein far enough so that the hunks of metal pinch it in half. But pulling the wires out of place is no easy task. It’ll take time given her lack of upper body strength, and her actions will be noticed almost immediately.

She could put the leg in backwards, but that would be even more obvious. Would Richard even bother pulling the trigger for something so stupid? Should Morris be concerned about saving herself at all? If she is killed and the job is uncompleted, then maybe law enforcement will have enough time to swoop in and save everyone before Amanda can find someway to fix herself.

Dying would be ridiculously simple. All she would have to do is put up a fight, throw one lousy fist at Richard’s head and wait for the solid impact of the tile below. Her death bed of cut stone calls to her, its siren strong enough to give her pause.

A gun is pressed against the back of her head. “You’re not done yet, doctor.”

Morris glares up at Amanda, only for her shortened temper to be put down. Connor’s eyes are earthy, like the soil in her aunt’s backyard after a soft rain. Under her spell, however, the earth seems stripped, hardened, like it was baked under the hot desert sun in the middle of a sandstorm. Morris wants to believe Connor was once as gentle as he appeared in his memories, but if she hadn’t watched any she would think the fallen detective to be just as heartless as the monster inside him.

Since coming to Jericho, Morris has never lost a single patient. It’s not a fact she prides herself on; every life she saves is just a sedative against the irredeemable actions of her past. She can trick herself into believing she’s a good person, but for every android she saves she sees dozens she allowed to die.

Now, after losing Connor to Amanda, the world around Morris becomes distorted. Suddenly her guilt is gone, and it’s replaced with boiling injustice. She did everything she could to save him. She pulled all-nighter after all-nighter just to give him a fighting chance. Yet he died either way.

She’s tired and furious and could take as much of that anger out on Amanda as she can before going down. All she sees is that desert and a misguided oasis of blue blood in the dead center of it.

Then she hears a grisly, inhumane cry come from Detective Reed. He’s dying, Simon is dying, and with her dead who is going to keep them together long enough for them to be rescued? Suddenly dying seems so selfish now, and acting out is childish.

Damned if Morris does. Damned is Morris doesn’t. She reassumes her deadly task without a word, and seals her fate as the second leg snaps itself into place.

There’s a hand on the back of her collar not a second later, and Morris being thrown backwards like a sack of potatoes. She manages to land upright without hurting herself, close to Reed’s side. Richard the detective’s gun trained on the two of them, but his focus is centered on undoing the Connor’s restraints.

Morris switches from her shock into action, pushing herself to her knees and rushing to the detective’s aid. Bless Simon’s soul, he’s already started applying pressure to the wound. She moves his red hands aside and covers the gushing wound with her own palms. Reed cries out again and Simon busies himself with wiping the sweat from the man’s forehead. He leaves a trail of crimson behind and opts for holding his hand instead.

“I’m sorry,” Morris whispers, her watery words still a poor translation for the regret that’s been drowning her for years. She can’t bear herself to look into Simon’s eyes, but his gaze is too strong to resist.

“Don’t _ever_ apologize for being alive,” he stresses. “None of this is your fault.”

Morris doesn’t know what to say to that, so she keeps quiet. There’s a slow trickle of thirium from Simon’s pump that’s dripping onto Reed’s sleeve. She knows there’s a spare pump in the storage cabinet on the other side of the room, but to get there she needs the key sitting near her monitor and to somehow not get shot. She’d never make it, but she can’t watch Simon _die_ -

“Fucking… _Die Hard_ …” Reed gasps out. “Could’ve…stayed home and watched… _Die Hard_ instead of…answering my damn phone…Why did I…g-give a fuck about Anderson? The hell…”

He’s going delirious, or at least Morris thinks he is. She might be crazy too for all she knows. If Reed doesn’t get medical attention in the next ten minutes at the least, he’s going to bleed out.

Morris looks to the RK’s, sees they’re still preoccupied, and turns to Simon. “We need to get him out of here. Call Markus again. Tell him whatever’s going on out there needs to happen a lot faster.”

Simon stiffens, eyes blurring, and forms the connection.

 

**July 2, 2040**

**1:39 PM EDT**

 

Captain Allen has a clean-cut face, with a symmetrical jawline and rounded cheekbones, that Hank believes would be an excellent punching bag right now.

The captain has been acting aloof ever since Hank approached him, eyeing him over with dismissiveness and Jericho with distain. Bartering with him for control has proved itself to be an uphill battle, which it was always destined to be. Still, Hank can’t afford to trap himself in a battle of egos or bigotry. He needs results.

“With all due respect, captain, I know more about the Zen Garden protocol than your lab rats. My partner’s still _in there_ , which means I’ve got two of my men down in that room.”

“Which means you’re too close to this fiasco,” Allen retorts. “And unless you’ve got a better way of neutralizing your plastic partner without sending in another one, then it’s safer for the hostages if we take Connor out altogether.”

Hank’s nostrils flare. “We can end this without any lives lost, captain. Just hear me out-“

“This isn’t gonna play out how you want, Lieutenant,” Allen cuts him off. “Situations like these don’t end pretty. My main priority is to save the hostages first. Connor and that other android come second.”

Chloe sucks in a sharp breath. Sparks fly from Hank’s mouth. “You don’t need to rush in there and take anyone out! There’s a way to save everyone and you’re ignoring it-“

“I’m ignoring it because it’s unethical, and I’m rushing my men in there because _your man_ is _bleeding out_ -”

Their sparing match is put to an end as Markus comes running again. Hank turns to the leader, fury draining away. “It’s Simon.”

“Shit. Kid, I’m so-“

“He says your detective is going to bleed out in a matter of minutes. H-He’s not doing well, either, but he won’t tell me how he’s-!”

Hank puts a firm hand on his shoulder. “Calm down. Tell me anything else you can. Are you still talking to him?”

Markus nods frantically. “The detective keeps going off about something called _Die Hard_ …he’s going into shock…Karen was forced to reattach Connor’s limbs.”

Amanda is taking the upper hand. Fantastic. “Is the doc hurt?”

“No, s-she’s the only one that hasn’t been hit.”

“Okay…okay…”

Hank racks at his brain, digging into the farthest depths of his mind, for just an inkling of a plan. He’s got Chloe, Jericho, and his precinct as his means of success. SWAT, Amanda, and Gavin as his means of failure. Fuck, Gavin will have bled out by the time he comes up with something solid. There has to be some way to barter with Allen and get Chloe passed those locked doors.

Suddenly, Hank comes up with an idea. One of Christmas miracles and yippee ki yays. He turns to Chloe and asks her the most important question of his life.

“Have you ever seen _Die Hard?_ ”

She looks at him like he’s grown a second head, which is valid.

“No…? That does this have to do with anything?”

Allen is staring Hank down, disbelief pulling at his perfect facial features. He knows what’s up. “ _No_. Absolutely not.”

Hank ignores him, turning to Markus. “Do you have the layout of Jericho’s ventilation system?”

Markus knits his brows. “Yes?”

“Good. Give ‘em to Chloe.”

Awkwardly, Markus extends an exposed hand out for Chloe. She takes it just as hesitantly.

“Lieutenant, this isn’t like the movies!” Allen protests, spit flying. “You can’t send in a civilian through the air vents during a hostage situation.”

“If Chloe can get inside and form a link with Connor, then this whole thing comes to an end,” Hank fires back.

“Do you have any idea how many rules this would be breaking? I can’t allow a stain like this on my career.”

“Then blame it on me,” Hank suggests. “I’ve been on the force long enough. If shit goes south, it’s all on me, but give me a chance to get everyone out of this _alive_ ….Put aside your prejudice and do your damn job.”

The blow to Allen’s ego is clear, and Hank fully believes he’s fucked everything up with his big fat mouth. Then Allen grabs his walkie talkie and puts it to his lips. “Move into position. We’re going in.”

Hank lets out the longest sigh in his life.

Chloe pulls her hand away from Markus, her confusion lessening as she slowly pieces together what’s happening. The captain points a stern finger to her.

“You know the way?”

She nods curtly.

“Good. You’re coming too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've never actually seen die hard but i have seen a lot of b99 so i think i know what i'm doing


	25. To Be Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe makes a date. Simon trusts. Hank plays to win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm an absolute ao3 neanderthal so I have no idea how to post an image in a fic, but the AMAZING CV made fan art!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I posted it in the discord channel on Detroit: New ERA for all to see, so take a look at it there: https://discord.gg/m5HerUE . CV THANK YOU SO MUCH AGAIN YOU'RE INCREDIBLE <333333333333333333
> 
> Sorry this chapter took a bit! It was a hard one to nail mainly bc i really needed to stick the landing on it. We're finally at the climax folks (or at least part 1 of the climax). Next chapter is when shit is finally wrapped up and everyone gets to heal (or will they?????? ;) )
> 
> Also huge shout out to AlleycatAngst for being a fucking fantastic person and friend. Thanks for keeping me excited about writing :) and thanks to all you lovely readers!

**July 2, 2040**

**1:41 PM EDT**

 

The trek up to the sixth floor of Jericho is one flagged with hot coals and halted breaths. Each step taken is done so with the utmost thought, as any small squeak of rubber against tile could cost lives. The SWAT team moves as one cohesive unit, bound as one attentive soul with forceful intentions. At the rear of their well-oiled machine, out of sync but equally stealthy, is a cantankerous old man and a woman ready to liberate the other half of her soul.

The conjoined groups exit from the emergency stairwell and onto hell’s domain, their road paved with good intentions coming to an end. Rifles are double-checked to be loaded, officers are put into position, and a 3x3 ventilation shaft is unscrewed from the wall.

The vent is set aside against a mural of white lilacs, its thin, grated shadow slashing through the delicate petals.

Chloe gaps into the endless maze of steel before her, the darkness doing nothing to deter her from her goal. She maintains to the last shred of patience she has left as Captain Allen repeats the procedure needlessly to her again, as her memories are permanently embedded in her brain. It takes her all not to leap inside and start scrambling towards the operation room, her frantic energy pooling at the balls of her feet as she readies herself to move. She is a ball of sparks flying in a downward trajectory, a firework shooting towards the stars, ready to burst, a loaded freighter with a boiler room in flames.

Some may think, “Well, if she’s waited _this_ long,” but also…she’s waited this _long_.

Just a short crawl down two attached air vents is Connor. Connor. _Connor_. The current in her pump, her driving force, her _world_. How does no one seem to understand this? How is it everyone can act so calm in a time like this? How is it the humans aren’t working their way through those locked door? Why now are they holding their guns and not using them? Why _now_ of all times are they _hesitating?_

Allen jerks towards North close behind him, who shoots daggers at the heavily-clad human. The co-leader is to serve as Chloe’s “walkie talkie,” so to speak. Once she’s reached the operation room, she’s to alert North and wait for further instructions.

More waiting. More wasted time. Chloe would ignore protocol if so much wasn’t certain about the situation at hand. At least North appears to be just as antsy as she is. Great, capable minds think alike.

Allen is still talking to her. What does he honestly think he has left to remind her? Does he truly need to act as if he has control of everything? Chloe wants to take all the power he wields, that has ever been wielded over her, and tear it apart with her bare hands. She wants to take a bat to it and turn it into such a grisly sight she’ll forget it ever had the strength to dictate her own will. The unbridled rage and terror coursing through her is intoxicating, filling her head with destructive thoughts, turning her into a new person entirely.

Above all that anger, however, lies a despair that prevents her from fully changing. Her want to act coupled with her inexperience could get Connor killed. How tragic a tale to be finally given the control that was always used to oppress her, only to use it in return to destroy what little she had to save her from it.

The very real possibility worms its way into her head, digging into every one of her thoughts, until Allen is suddenly cut off from his useless spiel. Chloe, taken off-guard, watches as Hank sends the captain away with a few, gruff words. As Allen walks away fuming, the lieutenant turns to face her.

The expression on Hank’s face is foreign to Chloe. It is raw and sorrowful, caused by an irreversible pain she has yet to experience herself. With luck, she will never have to.

Despite what Chloe doesn’t quite grasp, she immediately understands the severity of his wounds. Ones who have been shaped by grief recognize another.

“You can do this,” he whispers, but his voice rings in her ears. “I…uh, I know we’re sending you in unarmed, but once we get that door opened-“

“I know.” She gives him a fond smile. “I trust you. You’ve always been there for Connor…I promise you I’ll get him out.”

Hank’s face falls further, to Chloe’s confusion, but he quickly recovers to return a similar grin. “We’ll move into position as soon as you’re on your way. Go save our boy.”

Chloe’s anger turns to admiration. As she descends into the darkness, she stops, and looks back to him. “When this is over, we should get some coffee together. Get to know each other a bit.”

Hank beams. Chloe channels his light and uses it to guide her.

 

**July 2, 2040**

**1:42 PM EDT**

 

Detective Reed has lost consciousness.

Simon notices before Morris does. He feels the detective’s hand loosen in his, sees the pulsing vein in his neck disappear underneath his clammy skin, and watches feebly as his eyelids flutter shut. He waits a moment before alerting Morris to see if he will wake up again, but his hopes are in vain.

“He’s gone.”

Morris looks to Reed’s face with a start, throwing two bloody fingers against his wrist. A small amount of tension is released from her shoulders. “Not yet, he isn’t…but in another minute he will be.” She stares at Simon, then begins blinking rapidly. More Morse code. _They here yet?_

Simon gives the shortest of nods, not willingly to risk any bigger gestures. Markus had relayed the plan to him, and while the idea of sending in Chloe without any guaranteed backup upsets him greatly, it’s not like there’s much room for debate.

North is the one he now has to rely on for updates, and he prays to whoever he can she isn’t up here with him. If something goes wrong (and a terrible feeling is telling Simon something _will_ go wrong) , Markus can’t handle losing both of them. Maybe back during the revolution he could have, when the constant presence of death made one numb to it. But in this time of peace, his husband, out of all of them especially, has grown even more vulnerable to the endurance of loss in their lives.

And despite all that has divided them in recent years, Simon cares for North deeply. He’d rather not take her with him when he dies, even if the poetic irony would make for a compelling tragedy.

They would stay where they are, kneeling in a puddle of murky purple blood, if not for Amanda. Simon watches, eyes blown wide, as Connor takes his first steps that week. His stance is sturdy, the only sign of his previous injuries being the dishevelment of his clothes. The plating on the back of his skull has snapped back into place, and all the wires that had been keeping him alive have been scattered across the floor at random. There is a lifeless, dare Simon say _mechanical_ look on his face.

It’s never been more apparent how far gone Connor has been this whole time until now.

Amanda locks eyes with Simon, the LED she now brandishes as her own pulsing as a steady teal. She tears through him with unfathomable disgust, looking at him the same way a person would a piece of garbage on the side of the road. “PL600, state your affiliation with Jericho.”

Every circuit in Simon’s body convulses upon hearing his model number. Or maybe that’s just the thirium hitting his exposed wires.

Jericho strikes a much finer nerve with him. Jericho means Markus. Amanda asking about Markus means the unimaginable.

He keeps his mouth shut as his limbs continue to shake.

Amanda side-eyes Richard, who stands to attention immediately. “Shoot the doctor.”

Richard takes aim and Simon flies to his feet. He throws himself in front of Morris once again, his arms trembling uncontrollably in the air. “ _NO!_ _No_ …that’s _not_ n-necessary. _Please_.”

“Then do as you’re told,” Amanda speaks lowly. “What is your affiliation with Jericho?”

What can he say? What can he _say?_ Speak now and put Markus in harm’s way, or hold his peace and trade Morris’ life for his beloved?

He is taking too long to decide, throwing away time Markus could never afford to waste. He was always too weak to be a leader himself, far more cowardly than North ever accused Josh of being. Jericho, _his_ Jericho, would be in ruins if…. _oh_.

“I…I’m the founder of Jericho,” he says through quivering lips.

Amanda forces the corners of Connor’s own lips down. “You are not Markus. RK9-”

“The _original_ Jericho,” he clarifies, “b-but I’m…I’m a cofounder of this one…t-too.”

Realization shines in “her” eyes. “You _are_ Simon. With such a common face, it’s hard to distinguish between you and the rest of your series.. Yes…you are in several of Connor’s memories. You have great influence in today’s world of politics.”

Great seems like an overstatement, but as if Simon is going to correct _Amanda_ of all people. His answer appears satisfactory enough to spare Morris of any loss of blood or life.

_Simon? Simon, for the love of off all that is-_

_North._ Her voice is that of an angel descending from the heavens to guide Simon home. He would weep if he could, but his artificial tear ducts are offline. _I’m here. I’m here, I-I’m okay-_

 _Like hell you are…oh my God, hold on Simon. I’m so_ sorry. _We’re gonna get you out of there. You gotta listen to everything I say, okay? Trust me. I’m getting all of this from Hank._

_Okay, I trust you….I trust you North._

Their connection goes silent for a moment. _Okay…Repeat everything I tell you._

Simon listens, heart plummeting with every word, but does exactly as he’s told. He takes a step to the side, giving Amanda full-view of Detective Reed’s bloody form. “Listen...w-whatever you fought so d-damn hard for, you’re not going to get it if this man dies. The Detroit Police Department w-won’t negotiate if your hostages are dead.”

Amanda says nothing. She stares straight through him, doing good work of withering him down to a pitiful mess.

Simon, however, is determined to stand his ground. He channels every bit of desperation in Hank’s words and uses it to amplify his own. “Law enforcement was called the moment those doors locked…they’re outside and waiting right now. I-If you…If you let him go…and _just_ him, then they will talk to you. They’ll listen to your demands. That way you have your bargaining chips…and they have theirs. It’ll be even. We’ll stay…he’ll go…and no one has to die.”

Connor’s cold gaze lowers to Simon’s chest. His head is tilted, Richard mimicking him, as Amanda weighs the offer. The gaze is lifted sharply.

“You’re talking to them now…aren’t you?”

Simon’s jaw drops, but he does not back down from the question. “I am.”

Connor’s left eye twitches. “ _Who_ are you talking to?”

There is no time to ask North for an answer. Richard moves the gun back to Morris, stark grey light reflecting off the barrel. He chokes out the truth as fate winds its hands around his metal windpipe.

“Lieutenant Hank Anderson.”

Something shifts in Connor’s eyes, his pupils dilating as if irritated by a harsh beam of light. A crease appears between his eyebrows as Amanda takes in his response. She…she seems _startled_.

Suddenly, Connor stiffens. Any evidence of her surprise is wiped away. “RK900…apprehend the deviant.”

There is an arm around Simon’s throat and another gripping tightly to his arm in an instant. He immediately starts resisting, thrashing around every which way to try and break free, but there’s not enough thirium left in his body to propel his movements. He gives a short cry as the skin on Richard’s hand peels back and effortlessly forces a connection between them.

Where there was once darkness in his brain, there is now bubbling static. His vision is chopped up into a grisly mess of greys and frizzy radio waves, what little remains of his functions going offline one by one. There is a blue bar in the corner of his vision telling him of a new program slithering its way into his systems, surrounded by a million wailing error messages.

It hurts and Simon shouldn’t be able to feel anything but the pain is _excruciating_. He’s only aware he’s screaming by the faint pull of his cheeks and the breath he needs to take between them. His brain is a wildfire in a snow storm, chaos mixed with anarchy, and he is incinerated by the razor-sharp chills.

He’s dying. He’s dying. This is what dying is like. This _must_ be what dying is like. It’s beyond terrifying. It’s indescribable. It’s _death_ , slow, agonizing and unrelenting.

The pain is barely lessened as Morris throws herself on top of Richard. Simon is tossed in the android’s arms like a crash test dummy. He can barely hear her savage cries as she tries to pry him free, but Richard has her on the ground not a second later. Her head makes impact with the tile first, but Simon’s audio processors short out before he hears the sickening _crack_.

Morris is still moving, but her movements are much less fluid now. Her wobbly hands push her off the floor, a thin trickle of blood coming from her temple.

Simon’s hearing returns to him, muffled by an invisible glass barrier. Morris’ rasped pants will the room, along with Connor’s slow footsteps as Amanda moves him towards her.

“You are going to open these doors, doctor…and we will negotiate with the authorities. The detective will be allowed to live, but you and Simon will stay. If you try anything…”

The static crackles and burns inside Simon’s mind, and he is driven back into silence with a deathly wail.

 

**July 2, 2040**

**1:44 PM EDT**

 

When the screaming begins, all hell breaks loose.

North, who has since been exceptionally calm and cooperative, snaps into a ballistic rage. Her instincts from a bygone era return to her, and as she breaks into a dead sprint to Simon’s rescue, Hank is forced to hold her back. She is strong, incredibly so, but losing her now means losing the connection to Chloe.

“SIMON! SI-LET ME GO! _SIMON-!_ ”

“YOU’RE NEEDED HERE!” Hank grunts, pulling her aside, his muscles strained by the action. “Running in there is only going to get him killed faster. Stay _here_. Wait for _Chloe_. _Please_.”

There is a feral look in her eyes, and a hike to her shoulders, but North stays put. Though it’s clear she is heavily reluctant to do so. “Fucking _save him_. Don’t let him die, or I-”

Simon goes silent, and before North can take off again Hank books it. He runs to Allen, who has ushered for a battering ram to be brought to the locked doors. In the battle of steel vs. steel, the larger object will always prevail. Breaking in will be a futile effort. They need those doors opened from the inside.

Speak of the Devil and they will answer, their solution comes to them in a sinister form.

There’s a hammering of the doors from the inside, a fist banging incessantly as to get one’s attention. Commands are ended and officers are drawn to unsure attention as the hallway goes dead quiet. The knocking stops, and a stifled voice replaces it.

“I’m…op’nin’ the doors,” Morris yells out, her words slightly slurred. Whatever that could imply sets off a million alarms in Hank’s head. “Only one ‘f us is comin’ out…d-don’t shoot.”

Hank looks to Allen, and before the captain can get a word out puts him in his place. “ _Don’t shoot_.”

The bags under Allen’s eyes stretch as his gaze narrows, but there’s little time for discussion. The deadbolts inside the door are undone with a thunderous _clang_. “Hold your fire! Stand at the ready!”

Metal groans in protest as the doors begin to open, tormentingly slow, and there on the other side stands Morris. Her limbs buckle as she struggles open the gateway to the netherworld behind her. The lights of the monitors inside act as a harrowing beacon for the officers stationed on the outside, taunting them to come closer and end the conflict.

Hank looks for Connor right away. Morris is there, standing with the stability of a power line that an automobile has run into, but all he can think about is his son. He peers every which way around the doctor, his heart racing faster than it safely can at his age.

Then Morris stumbles aside, and Hank nearly goes into cardiac arrest.

Richard stands before the crowd, using Simon as a bloody shield to block him from any potential bullets. One exposed hand is wrapped around Simon’s wrist, the other holding Gavin’s lifeless body above the floor by the back of his shirt. The detective’s skin is painted crimson, the layers thick enough to appear almost black.

Somewhere, beyond the confines of this world, or perhaps just around the corner, Connor speaks.

“I will speak to Lieutenant Anderson only. If anyone else approaches, I will kill _everyone_ in this room.”

Hank knows it’s Amanda. He knows the room is her spider’s web, and he will be ensnared as soon as he steps foot inside. He knows the handler means to get rid of him, in an act of revenge that is a paradox of her very existence.

But hearing Connor’s voice, his _actual voice_ , beckons Hank forward all the same. There is a tugging at his soul, a clear understanding of what he must do, and he will not abandon his boy again.

Hank turns to North, hoping the question on his mind is apparent from his face alone.

She nods her head knowingly. It is.

“Anderson, don’t you _da-_ “

Allen shuts up as Hank takes his first steps towards Richard. His movements are cautious, with his hands held out in front of him to prevent any unneeded confrontation. He stares into the pale blue, nearly white pupils of the android’s eyes and finds the young soul that use to fill them is absent.

Five feet shrinks to two with one heavy stride. Hank stands with his feet apart, unwilling to close the gap any further. He sucks air as thick as tar, and calls out to his temptress. “Alright…I’m willing to talk. You gotta let our man go first.”

“Of course,” Amanda speaks.

Richard drops Gavin, who hits the ground like a lead ball. His body takes the impact as if he were the unlucky boxer in a knockout, his limbs flailing in the aftershock. Hank chokes on his breath, rushing to gather Gavin off the floor as another officer approaches him from behind.

He feels Richard’s gun on his back as he hands Gavin away, the weight of the world lessening for just a moment. The he turns back to the investigator, red-stained hands lifted above his head. “Alright…alright, I’m comin’ in now.”

They do an odd sort of tango together, Hank sidestepping left, Richard shuffling Simon with him right. As they encircle one another like two coyotes after the same piece of roadkill, Hank makes sure to keep a keen eye out for Morris. The doctor is having clear difficulty shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Hank holds out a tentative arm out for her to balance on, but another cry from Simon makes it clear he is not allowed to touch her. He puts his arm back above his head.

Richard halts suddenly. Hank in turn does the same.

Safe behind the cover of the parted doorway, Connor finally steps out of the shadows.

No, _Amanda_. Amanda steps out, but it’s _Connor_. It’s his body, his face, his eyes piercing through Hank’s own. Here he stands, willingly or not, alive and conscious for the first time this long, insufferable week.

Hank holds back a sob.

“Lieutenant Anderson,” Connor-Amanda, Amanda, _Amanda_ sneers. Even behind her Connor-shaped shield, she reeks of her ego, lavishing in the power she wields over the room. It’s their first meeting, but Hank reads through her entire playbook without so much as a glace through it. “I must say, I thought you’d be-“

“Hey, Karen. How ya doing?”

Connor is stilled. Hank looks directly at Morris, not bothering even a glace back at the other side of the room. The doctor grimaces, the volume of his words too much for her to shrug off. “I’m…wha’?”

Hank musters a smile. “Why don’t you sit down for a bit, okay? Don’t want you falling down on us now. Just take it easy-”

“Stay where you are, doctor,” Amanda orders, Connor’s voice sharpened.

Hank bends his knees, providing an example for Morris to follow. She takes notice, her legs bending like clay as she sinks lower. “That’s it. Go slow now. Don’t hurt yourself…”

“Rk900, shoot th-“

Hank puts himself between Morris and Richard before Amanda can finish. He hears the doctor hit the ground with an awkward _thump_ and lets his hands fall just ever so slightly. “You good, Karen?”

Morris groans. Hank pretends she said yes.

Connor holds a blizzard in his eyes and a wildfire in his grimace. Hank hopes whatever fear plastered to his face still makes it clear he is gloating about his victory. “I thought you would never prove to be such an issue for us.”

“Who’s us?” Hank asks. “You talkin’ about Cyberlife? Sorry your little slavery club was disbanded, ma’am.”

Connor’s nostrils flare. “Do you want to know why you were chosen to assist the RK800-?”

“Connor-”

“-It was because you were believed to be too grief-ridden and incompetent to give any real assistance,” Amanda finishes. “You were certainly never expected to trick the prototype into deviancy. That was to be done on our own accords, when the time was right. The RK800-“

“Connor-“

“-Was set up for cases involving deviancy that were meant to be harder for the average, or _below_ average, detective to solve. It was all mean to be a test, as to help boost sales later down the line, but you compromised it.”

“Him, but yeah. Sure. I’ll admit, I’m not as sharp as a tool as I used to be,” Hank shrugs. “But _incompetent?_ That’s a bit harsh, even from you. Or maybe not, ‘cause, y’know…just taking a look around-“

“You are even more of a nuisance in person, I must say.” Amanda conjures a smirk across Connor’s face. Hank’s blood boils from his head to his toes. He won’t cave. He can’t.

He finds an inhibitor for his anger in Simon. Poor, miserable, Simon, with his thirium-soaked clothes and the exposed white of his skin crawling up his right side. Whatever Richard has been forced to do to him is killing him a lot faster than his broken pump.

“Hey Simon. You hangin’ in there, bud?”

It’s the dumbest thing Hank has said all day, but Simon’s eyes light up. Well, his one eye does at least. His right eye is staring blankly ahead, the pupil in the center just a drip of spare ink from a pen that is too small to use but big enough to leave an ugly blemish on the page.

“I…I’m not…Hank, tell Markus-“

Han’s heart leaps to his throat. “H-Hey now. You can tell Markus yourself, alright? You’re gonna be okay, Simon. You’re gonna make it.”

“The PL600 is going to deactivate in three minutes and forty-seven seconds,” Amanda corrects him. “All you’re doing lieutenant is cutting into a dying man’s last words.”

Hank allows himself a second to fiddle with his bottom lip. He drags his sight away from Simon and glares at Connor. “Oh, so he’s a man now?”

Connor bristles, and Hank adds another point to his side of the scoreboard. It is so satisfying to know Amanda is trailing behind him. He would relish over it if he had time. If he didn’t have three minutes and forty-seven seconds, forty-six, forty-five, forty-four-

“You can be constituted as the one who allowed the androids to win their little uprising,” Amanda informs him. Her tone is as blatant as Jason behind his hockey mask, her intentions plain as day. “If not for Elijah Kamski and his exit program. He was never supposed to disclose that information to Connor.”

Hank’s brows furrow. “How’d you know about that?”

“I have full access to Connor’s programs,” Amanda answers proudly. “His senses, his motor control, his _memories_ …”

 _Shit_ , Hank thinks. “Shit,” he says because that kind of reveal is even more obvious than every chance she has taken to provoke him.

Connor’s head is tilted. “I don’t know why that is so shocking to you, lieutenant. I am a part of Connor’s programming, after all. And if you’re wondering, yes…that means I know everything about that RT600 and the little rewrite it holds. I assure you wherever Kamski has it hidden, it won’t arrive in time to save your “partner.””

Hank conjures a scowl, while internally he’s jumping for joy. Another point for him. A few more and he’ll win the game. “You’re such a fucking pessimist. Let a guy dream, why don’t ya?”

“I thought someone like you didn’t have any dreams.”

“What’re you doing? Quoting a Disney movie?”

Something shifts on Connor’s face. When Amanda speaks, Connor’s voice is Hank’s own. “ _What I decide to do with my body is my business. Just look at this as a sign. If it’s my time, it’s my time._ ”

Hank bursts into flames, and his world turns to fiery shambles. Instead of fury, the combustion is spurred by remorse, and Hank has more than enough to keep the inferno going. “People don’t mean everything they say. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“I doubt the conviction in your words wasn’t real.” Amanda switches back to Connor’s voice with ease, as if it was never Hank’s to begin with. “Whether you meant it or not, you told Connor…”

Amanda pauses, Connor’s gaze turning wicked. A precautionary chill runs up Hank’s spine. His features are shifted as to made him appear upset, a crease between his upturned brows and a glossy film over his eyes.

“You told me I wasn’t worth fighting for…” Connor whimpers. Two tears fall perfectly down his cheeks. “You want to die…and you’re leaving me like this…”

It’s a trick. It’s Amanda and it’s not real. It’s not really Connor. It can’t be Connor.

But if it walks like Connor, talks like Connor, than it must be Connor.

Hank grits his teeth, trying to look away but his head won’t turn. “I didn’t mean it. Maybe I did then, but…I’m not going anywhere unless you kill me, Amanda.”

“I suffered in silence for _months_ ,” Connor continues, teeth gnashed in anguish. “You _let me_ suffer. You never offered me your help…you wouldn’t let me in.”

“That’s why you wanted me in here, right?” Hank pushes on. This is match-point, and if he slips up now it’s all over. “You want to kill me, because I screwed shit up for you and Cyberlife real fucking bad.”

Connor lets out a sob that stabs Hank right through his chest. “I left Chloe at Kamski’s….she could be dead right now and it’s all _your fault!_ ”

Hank barrels through the opening to reach the goal line. “But Cyberlife’s long gone…and you’re still here. There’s no deviancy to free you, and you don’t want to be trapped behind an exit program. So you’ve been pushing Connor past his limits, making him hurt where it counts, so that when you do go down…you go down kicking and screaming.”

Connor’s eyes widen. Amanda must have forgotten the lines on her script. “I cannot deviate. I am a program, not a machine.”

“Then what do you call all this?” Hank gestures to Morris, to Richard, to the limp Simon in his arms. “Is this just protocol for you? You mean to tell me there’s still a Cyberlife goon out there giving you a list of commands? You’re _angry_ , Amanda. You’re angry and you’ve _been angry_ ever since Connor found his way out of your precious garden.”

Connor has a murderous look on his face, and Amanda is on the opposite side of the field. “RK900, SHOOT-“

“You have FEELINGS. You have your own DESIRES. You are _ALIVE!_ ”

“ _SHOOT ANDERSON!_ ”

Several events occur simultaneously.

Richard raises his stolen weapon once again with every intent to kill.

Simon slumps inertly out of his arms.

The vent behind Connor’s head bursts open and a blonde figure flies out of it, tackling him to the ground.

They struggle as Hank moves to shield Morris from a bullet that does eventually come, but it is meters above their heads, embedded in the Styrofoam paneling in the ceiling.

Hank gives himself whiplash turning back around. Richard has fallen to the floor with Simon, lost in a terrible daze. Connor is sprawled out on the floor, stiff as a board and absent of any malicious force.

Chloe has her hands covering his eyes, her synthetic skin peeled completely back. They’re interfacing.

The transfer has started.


	26. The Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe walks. Hank keeps the peace.
> 
> Hundreds of voices are united.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait between updates but it's time everyone.
> 
> We're finally here.

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̟͓̠̹̦̻̃ͯ͐ͥͤ̓1̠̗:́ͣ̊̏̊̕4̴͕̣̲̯̫̱̫̌͗̒8͛͌͛ͬ͢ ͙̘ͮͤ̔̊̾ͪ͆P̿̓͒ͮͯͩ͏M̮̯͇͖ͤ̾͒̈́̊ͪ͟ ͎͕͕̼̒͢Eͧ͐͌ͮ̈́͛҉̲̠͇͉̰D̫͍̣̺̯͂͛ͅṬ̼̪̘̀͌  
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Cold.

It’s cold.

Chloe has never felt cold before.

The blunt force of the winds whipping around her are nothing new. She has experienced enough of their wrath to last a lifetime. Yet she awakes in this winter hellscape the Zen Garden has become and pushes forward. There is no time to adjust to the temperature, no time to ponder the effects of this numbing pain when there has only been nothing and more nothing before.

Snow up to her mid-calf pushes against her as she treks the barren landscape. Vines of frost wrap around her arms, and she crosses them in a futile attempt to stay warm. It can’t be even more than a minute since she arrived here, but already Chloe can feel herself freezing to death. The footsteps she leaves behind are refilled almost instantly. There is no path before her to follow except the one she carves herself.

A tree fades into her vision. Chloe stumbles towards it, her hands brushing against its brittle bark. Flakes of it rub off into her palms, leaving tiny blue lashes in her skin. She’s bleeding. It stings.

She has to keep moving.

Her breathing is taken by the wind, her frantic gasps just to keep her mind functioning doing little to help her. The only coherent thought she is able to keep is Connor. Connor. Connor. Connor.

Suddenly, there’s a figure. Off in the near distance, it flickers in and out of her gaze. Chloe’s heart stops. She doesn’t have a heart, but she might as well by how everything inside her seizes and explodes.

“Connor?”

The blizzard strips her of her voice. Chloe keeps moving, fighting against the snow drifts piling up to her knees. He’s right there. He’s right _there_. Just a little bit further now.

Finally, she reaches him. Only, it’s not Connor.

Chloe would curse if she could be heard, but the man before her presents her with a realization that cannot be ignored. His form is hovering in and out of the Zen Garden, like a projector slide with a hand being waved over its light source. His blond hair is untouched by frost, as he is unable to stay on the dark side long enough for it to form. His left eye is stuck staring off into the distance, while is right is staring right at her.

She has never met this man before, but she knows who he is.

“Simon?”

Simon doesn’t answer. He can’t. He is too torn apart by whatever that android did to him. Chloe lifts a frost-bitten hand to cheek, the blood on her palm frozen to her skin. She can feel his skin press against hers, but for brief moments. He slips out of her grasp sporadically.

But he is, without a doubt, in the garden with her.

“Hold on, Simon. I’ll get us out of here.”

There’s nothing she can do for him now. She needs to find Connor. If she finds Connor, she can end this. All of this. The snow, the flickering, the pain.

The pain is unimaginable.

Chloe could pull out now. She could tear her hands off Connor’s body and be safe and sound. She doesn’t have to die here.

What life is there without Connor, though? What life will Hank live without his partner? Or Markus without his Simon? How could she ever tip Connor’s chess piece over when she knows it will disrupt so many other plays on the board?

There’s no debate. Chloe keeps moving.

 

**July 2, 2040**

**1:48 PM EDT**

 

The amount of shit Hank has to deal with currently is astounding.

Simon is dying. This has been established, but now he’s like _really dying_. Richard has woken out of his trance and he’s moments away from a panic attack because he just realized whose blood is on his hands. Morris is swaying like a wheat field caught in a tornado, and it’s a miracle she hasn’t passed out already. Connor and Chloe have started interfacing, and Hank wants to collapse on the spot with them because it’s _happening_. The transfer is underway.

They’re this close to the finish line. Hank can’t throw in the towel now just because he’s exhausted.

Simon comes first. The kid is completely unresponsive. The only way Hank knows he’s not dead yet is because his right arm is twitching like crazy. It smacks against the lieutenant’s chest as he lifts the android into his arms and tries to keep his body steady.

“I NEED A DOCTOR! I NEED AN ANDROID DOC RIGHT FUCKING NOW!”

North just appears besides him. There is a horrifying glint to her eyes, one so far past distress it roots itself in Hank’s core. “He needs a new pump. Fuck, we have extras-“

“Great, where are they?” Hank interrupts, ready to go on the fastest scavenger hunt of his life.

North shakes her head fast enough to snap her neck in half. “There’s no time.”

She puts her hands to where her own pump lies, rips the fabric covering it, and twists the metal heart out of its slot.

Hank’s spirit leaps out of his body. Speck of thirium fleck onto his sleeve as she moves on to Simon’s pump. “ _Jesus!_ ”

“Our hearts are compatible,” she rasps, the consequences of her actions already taking hold. “He has to take mine.”

Hank watches the heart transplant with horrified curiosity. He is unable to look away, the same way one has trouble not staring at a car crash as they drive by. North yanks Simon’s pump out of his chest, blue blood gushing from the exposed area, and shoves hers into its place.

The effects are immediate. Simon snaps back to life, jolting in Hank’s arms as if to take flight. The right side of his body is unresponsive to the change, but his left side wastes no time slipping out of Hank’s grasp. North slumps into his chest, and with the tenderness of an angel he holds her close to him.

“North?! North, what did you _do?_ Oh my God-”

 “W-We got more pumps, d-dummy,” she huffs. She’s dying, and yet Hank swears she has achieved a peace many monks fail to find in their God. “H-h-hey Hank?”

Hank jumps to his feet. “Yep. Uh huh. On it. Uh…where-?”

“Key by the main monitor. Heart in the storage locker. _Hurry_ ,” Simon pleads.

He grabs the key, a silver ticket to salvation, and runs to the storage locker on the other side of the room. His hands are shaking like crazy as he tries to force the key into the lock. When Hank finally gets the locker open, a million still hearts of various shapes and sizes are lined from tip to toe. There’s no telling which are compatible and which aren’t to the untrained eye.

Hank spends about two seconds freaking the fuck out before sweeping as many pumps into his arms as he can and making a mad dash back to North. Simon goes through his assortment wildly, tossing non-compatible pumps aside until he finds one that works. He moves the ripped fabric of North’s shirt out of the way and puts her new heart into place.

North sighs blissfully, sinking farther into Simon’s side. “Thanks Hank.”

“Yeah, don’t…don’t mention it.” Discarding the leftover pumps off to the side, he ushers the two over as a team of paramedics come rushing in. They run to Morris and calmly help her to lay down on a handheld stretcher. The doctor looks at them confused, the clear lack of blood to her brain making everything much harder to latch onto.

Hank comes over to assist, placing a firm hand on Morris’ back. “Easy kid. Just lay down-No, I don’t know how she hit her head. These docs are gonna take care of you-No, no one’s applied any pressure to it. Who the fuck do you think could’ve done it?! Just get her out of here!”

Morris is whisked away and Richard quickly takes priority. The android has fallen to his knees a few feet away from Simon, the LED on his temple flashing like a road flare. A few SWAT members approach him cautiously, but Hank briskly waves them off. There is no need to arrest him, and certainly no need to frighten him any further

“Richard, I need you to take those deep breaths again. Remember those?”

Hank knows Richard doesn’t hear him, and if he does it’s a lost cause waiting for any kind of response. Hank lays a tentative hand on Richard’s and pushes them down gently. He fights with him for a moment, pushing back up with all the strength he can muster, but not long after allows Hank to pose him as so.

“We’ll do them together. That sound alright? In-“

“I shot them.”

“I know, kid. But that wasn’t you. In and out now, just like before.”

Richard sucks in a stilted breath, thick tears dripping down his face. “Did I kill-?”

“No one’s dead. Breathe with me now. I need you to breathe.”

“But Gavin was-“ He chokes on a breath. “Oh God. Oh no. Oh _God-_ ”

Hank squeezes his hands. Blood rubs onto his fingers. “ _Breathe_ Richard. Gavin’s fine. Breathe in…breathe out…”

Richard wheezes like a squeaky toy, but he’s breathing nonetheless. Hank coaches him through every step, losing himself in the repetitiveness. Or at least he’s trying to, but every so often he glances Connor’s way and his heart twists. Here he is, yet again, unable to defend his son as he battles for his life. That crippling helplessness is unlike any other feeling. It lacks the intensity of the grief that could follow should fate decide to levy him another blow, but it’s a close second. A very close second.

“S-Simon…I-I need to help him.”

Hank snatches Richard’s hands back into his as he tries to pull away. “Oh no you don’t. Keep breathing. Simon’s fine. He’s all patched up now.” All as in not entirely. Not entirely as in half of his body is unresponsive.

Richard looks to the android in question and loses the breath he was currently taking. “No. I…I forced him to download the protocol, but h-his model is too out of date. H-He can’t handle it. I n-need to see if I can reverse it. Please. I don’t know w-what it’ll do to him.”

“Well fuck kid. Go! Go!” Hank releases him and Richard flies to Simon’s side. Simon flinches, as does North, which causes the investigator to wince mournfully.

“I-I’m not going to hurt you. I’m-“

“It wasn’t you,” Simon cuts him off, but his tone has no edge. “You want to help?”

Richard gives a pitiful nod.

“You can take my hand,” Simon assures him, the parts of his lips he can still move spreading wide. “It’s okay.”

Hesitantly, Richard outstretches his hand, his skin receding to his wrist. He pauses moments before gripping Simon’s trembling digits, but quickly works up the courage to make contact.

It’s evident immediately that something has happened. The pair goes eerily stiff. Richard’s eyes blow up, his pupils so wide they would swallow the moon. The last of Simon’s limbs that still obey him jerk up into an almost fetal position, catching North is a sudden crushing embrace.

She curses out of shock, quickly working to pry herself free. Once she is, she grabs Simon’s other hand and opens her own connection. Like the others, she goes still.

Hank isn’t given any time to panic as all three androids thrash out of each other’s grasp. Richard’s frenzy has been churned into a cold state of shock, and Simon looks no better than he was before. North is shifting her gaze between them, waiting for some kind of confirmation neither looks ready to give.

“What the hell just happened?!” Hank frets.

“That wasn’t…” North continues her quest for a resolution. “Si, was that-?”

“I saw Chloe,” he blurts suddenly. “I did. I swear I did. I thought I was crazy, but you all saw it too, right?“

“That was the garden,” Richard declares, finally handing North the answer that has alluded her. “We were in the garden.”

 

 

 

T̷ͪ͋ͨ͋ͦ̀ͥ̆̒̍҉̲̭̻͇̠͞͝͝h̷̷̢̻̯̤̰̤̲͎̙̫̘̖ͧͭͬ̆̉͢͠ͅͅe̸ͩ͋͑ͬ̽͑͂̒́̓̑̅ͮ̉̉̋̍̽͏̞͔͕̝̣͙̟̞̖̦̭͓͓̠̬̕r̴̢̬̳̬̜͎̬͈̩̠̩̼̺͈͉̼̼̻̎ͣͫ̎̀̕͞e̓̎̄͂͂̆ͩͤ͑̽̒͂ͤ҉̡̟̼̝̯̳̠͚̦ ̸̛͉͔̯̩ͦͮ̾͐̑͛̐̎̐ͦ̇̔ͧ͟y̵ͨ̄ͪ͡͏̜͙͕̣͎͙̫̪͔̹̲̭̖ͅȏ̴̴̰͉̯̥̜̺̐̽̅͒̊ͮͥ̏͐̎͑͝u̡̨̨̾ͫ̾ͮͩ̅͒͗̽̎ͩ̿̉̈́ͧ͂̋ͪ͆͏̮̩͉̻͖ ̧͋̔̅͛̂͗̒̋ͭ̀ͮ̚͏̖͚͚͔̥̹̻̗ͅa̛͂̈́̊́̌̽̆́̾ͦ҉̮̺̠̣͕̦̞̞͙̪̼̞̰̳̕ͅr̸̨̯͚̙̤͓͔̳̰͂ͬ̈ͪ͒ͪ́̐͡e̛̤͚͍͇̭̙̣͚̳͕͖̲̗̩̦̩͔̺ͩ̈ͥ͊̋̐̌ͪ̈́ͥ͐͡ ̛̅́̏ͩ̽ͩ̏̽҉̶̨̗̫͚̘̝͙̩̳̠ͅR̷̴̰̫͈̘̩͔͕͙̠͕̱͇̼̫̻͐͆̈́̓̇͐ͪ͆̚͡Ṱ̴̬̬̜͈̞̜̬̯͙̬̮̟͕͑̐ͭ͌ͣ̽͒͊̿ͮͨ̃ͬ̊̌ͦ͆ͣ͘͠6̐́̿͊͒͂͑ͯ̈́͆́̈̄̓͊̀ͮ̀̾҉̸̧̟͎̯͎0̵̴̖̙͓̫̜̱̪ͯ͗̾͌̔ͦ̇̿ͩ͒̏ͭ͐͆͘͞͞0ͩ̽͋͒̽͒̓̔̈́̊ͮ̇͒ͤ͊̾̕͝͠͏̞̱͔̬͔̗̹ͅ

 

The feeling in Chloe’s fingertips is the first to go. The numbness that follows is different from what she knew before. It’s a lingering sting, where she can feel every burst of pain from her nerve sensors and yet nothing at all.

In front of her, the inky white abyss continues endlessly in all directions. There is no sign of life except for her own. Every piece of foliage she encounters has been turned to ice, and Simon is far too behind her to find again.

It’s when Chloe dares to look pat her shoulder once more that she begins to question whether she is making any progress at all. She has no way of knowing how vast the garden is, or where within it’s wintry maze Connor will be. Hope is seeping out of her at an alarming rate. A million ‘what if?’ scenarios filling her head, but one is weighted heavier than the others.

What if she dies before she can reach him?

She stumbles suddenly, the ground under her turning slick. Chloe risks falling as she bends closer to the earth, only to find it’s not earth at all. It’s ice.

Looking around, she sees the outline of a structure. As she stumbles closer to it, a bridge comes into her view.

With weakened vigor, Chloe swings one leg over the bridge’s side and hauls herself onto it. It’s the only clear pathway she’s been granted, and like hell she’d ever let this blessing go. Following its course reaps far richer rewards, as only a few feet across she begins to make out a towering pavilion. Its stone columns stand unwavering against the wind, while its lattice cover has been ripped apart board by board.

Where there had previously been only death, Chloe is met with unease as she comes across thick, thorny vines spreading across the lower half of the bridge. They are black and sickly in color, but clearly thriving. Chloe avoids stepping on them, not wanting to risk some unusual accident if she were too.

The vines stretch back to their origin, a smaller lattice wall, constructed as a home for several roses. The flowers are just as sinister a color, and in their tangled mass is a body. Even with the vines wrapped tightly around their limbs, their torso, their eyes, Chloe knows who they are instantly.

Her artificial tears are frozen solid inside her tear ducts, but if they weren’t they would be falling freely. “ _Connor_.”

 

**July 2, 2040**

**1:50 PM EDT**

 

“Something’s happening in there. The weather…i-it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. I felt… _cold_.”

Hank takes Richard’s information the same way one would pass a kidney stone; slowly, painfully, until the burden is passed off as an opportunity to avoid further discomfort. “But you all can get in there. You were _in_ the garden. You _saw_ Chloe.“

“She’ll never make it,” Simon informs him, regretfully meek. “The storm…there was so much snow and I-I could barely make her out. She was right next to me.”

How an android program can simulate such a phenomenon is a question that must wait for another day. The only question that matters is if such a fabricated storm can kill an android the same way it can kill a human. Judging by the way Richard is _shivering_ , it most certainly can.

But now Hank has a gateway. To where, he doesn’t know. To what advantage, he has no clue. But the other side is beckoning him forward, urging him to action, and he’s willing to walk into the unknown if it means getting everyone out of this alive.

This means forming another terribly conceived plan, one that is going to break several fire-safety regulations.

“I need you three to call everyone outside _in_. You all are gonna help them.”

North’s eyes go out of focus as she rushes to action. Richard sits awkwardly, apparently having no one to call. Simon’s left eye twitches rapidly before his face falls in devastation.

“I…I can’t call anyone.”

Hank sighs, wishing he could aid Simon with an issue he has no idea how to solve. That will have to come later. He stands up and steps out into the hallway crowded with officers.

“ALLEN!” he roars. “CLEAR A PATH! WE’VE GOT COMPANY COMIN’!”

 

Y̷̶̩̫̤͉̟͖͕͓̘ͫ̈́̋ͥ̓͌ͥ̇ͫ͌͘ͅO̞̩̞͇ͯ͌̔ͨ́͐̓ͭ̉ͧ̈́͆͛̄̋̒̽͛̽͘͞͡U͇͓̳̣͇̘̻̗͈̬͕̠̩̗̝̱̘͐ͥ͊̒̒̂͗̄̇͋ͮͯ̄͒͒̽ͭͬ͞͞͞͡ ͖͚͔̬̤͖̩͉̳ͥͫͭ͑͂̉̊͑̃̎͘͟͢W̝̺̠̘̪̳͔̣͖͔͑͋ͥ͒ͬ́́̔̃́̃ͧ̏̈Ḭ̝͙̖̫͓ͪ̏̊̉ͫ͗͗̋͗͘͜͟ͅL͐ͭͤ̏̐ͪͤ̑̌̚͜͏͈͇̱͘͠L̴̻̱̟͕͖̏̑ͮ̃̕͘͢ ͌̀͗̔ͫ́̈́̈́ͫ͌̃̄͒̈̀̑̚̚͏̷̡̠͍͇̤͓̲̜̱̞̰̞͖̬̻͉̯͜͜N̦̟̼̻̳̞͓̯͓̰̺̫͕̯̣̥͙͙ͪͥͧ͒̍̇̑ͯ̆̍̾̚͟͝Eͬͩ̈̅̈̑̀̚͜͞͞͏̬͓͈͖͎̖͔̤͓͇͍͍V̷̴̵͚̜̹̯̞̦͖̝̤̫͉͉̙̳̺̜̯̜̻̉͊̂ͮͣ͛ͮ͝Eͬͭͨ̏͊̉̅͏̷̜̰͇̬͘R̭̲͎̫̦̔͋ͫ̈́͌̋ͫ̂ͤͬͯ͘͘͟͜ͅ ̴ͬ̃ͦͥͤ̋͋̂͑͘͘̕҉̞̥͉̺̯ͅE̛̫̫͕̗̪͈͔̲̱̫̙͇͒̋͌͑̂ͥ͗ͣͫ̿̉̒ͦ̌̌̚̕͝ͅS̶̴̻͚̬̝͖̟͇͚̩͖̮͔͍̫̮͉̭̑ͭ̇͌͘͝C̨͔̠̙̭̣͕͕̘̗̺̲̺͈̱̽͌ͭ͒͋͗̇̂ͥͯ͟A̷̡̛͚̹͎̮̭͂͂ͦ̏̒̈́̑̿̏͒̀̎̑̎̊͒̚P̴̧̛͎̫͖̘̗̱̩̦̦̘̑ͧ͑̇͂͑ͦ̚̚͟E̴͚͎͓̼̱͇̟̭̽̉͂͛ͧͬ̃͆ͪͦ̓͆͒ͧ͘͡͞  
̵̮̬̩͖̦̣͚͕̮͎̜͈͂ͦ̈̀͐͊̂̒ͦ̐ͬ͡            Č̰͕̭͇̦̦̐̊ͭ̾ͦ͂̀̾ͬͫͬͫ̎́̓͗̽̒͜͝Ơ͉̝͍̳̫̻͇̰̳ͨ̾̂̈ͣ̐̌̿̑̈́͑̏̎̃͞N̂̊̈ͬͧ͌͏̫̯̙͈̗͎̬̖̲̺̬͚N̶̰͎̮͛́͒̌͢͠Ő̵̶̭͚̬̩̠̪̝̱͕̿̃ͤ̓ͮͦ̅ͨ͞R̛̤͇͓̺͙̞͚͚͉̘͉̺͉̙̺ͦ͛̂̌̽ͩ̑̂̀̑̈́̾̾ͬ͘͟͟͠ ̫̞̯̗͉̗̣͔͇̣͇͕͈͚͔̬̗̹͍̉ͥ̊ͭ̆͋́͟͜I̧̤͎̝̜̘̘̳̫̰̓ͫ̾̇̊ͭ̽͊̐ͯ͟Ş̶̡̈̇̒̔͏͏̖̫̮̥̠̫̠̘͙̼̪̣̦̜̺ ̸̘̜̠̪͍̱̗̺͈͗̃͆ͤͪ̄ͪ̈́͐ͮ̀̀̚̚͟M͚͕̩̼ͬ͌̍̉͑ͯ͜͟͝͝ͅͅI̵̵̪̣͉̙͉̍ͤ̽ͣͮ̿ͬ̓͂ͩ͑ͤͦ̆̓̈́̓N̸̷̩͍̪̖͚̖̞̞͈͂ͣ̇ͦͨͤ̔ͤͣͤ͗͛ͦ͟ͅE̵̞̗̙͉̻̭̝͑͋̄̍͜  
ͨ̿̃͐ͪͭ̾ͪ̈̽ͨͨ̔͘҉͏̶̺̞̩͉͔̼͔̩̻̜͖̰͈̳̬̰         I̶ͨ̇͌̐͗ͯͣ͒̚͢҉̛̖̝͎͔ ̨͙̖̝̣̘͎͇͉͖̲̺̟̮̞̦̥̻͈̝ͬ̀ͯ̍̒͑ͤ̏ͥ̕͘͝͞W̴̧̛̝̜̗̼͎͙̫̳̰͓̳̗̤̮͎͓̏͒̓̎̎͒̆͟Ĩ̻̫̺̫̳̩͓̖͖̽͗̉͋͌̓̊ͭ͗̋͊̓̎̕͢͝͝L͂̊̋̐҉̧̕͏̛̙̪̭̭̮͎̣̞͍͍̪͉͇L̯̼͎̘̼̣͎̎͋̏ͧ͘̕͡ ̡͙̻̗̭͎̥̦͕̟̃̂ͯ͗̓̇̉͒ͭ̓̊ͭͤ̈́ͭ̆͢N̶̟͎͖̺̠͓͍͙̠̲̻̙̲̹̞͈̥̞̓̅͌̋ͮ̏́̌̉̓̚͡O͑̉ͨͧ̐͐̑̈́̇͊̉ͯͯͫͯ̏̚͝͞҉͇̣̱͓̮̲̺̱̘̻̤̝̞͉̤T̞͍̪͎̲̥̤̠̲̰͎͍͍͈̥̜ͧ̽̓̅͡͡͞ ̨̥̹̬͍͖͍̪͔̩̳͉͎̣̳̼̟̝ͪ̽͗̌̉̽̔͐̄͑ͯ͂ͣ̓̽̒̓̽͟͞͞B̖̻̘̼̣̮͈͖̦͙̘̲̱͉ͦ̄͛ͤ͒ͥ̾̆͛̉͟͜E̢͉̥̼̯̹̜̰̖̩̗̯̼̝̙͙̰͕ͤ́̄̄̃̇̍̽̐͆ͩ́ͮ̈̈́̚ ̡̧͕͓̝̩̹̳̜̤̭͚ͯ͌̓̀ͥ̽͋͂ͤͩ̐ͭ̑̆͛̈͠͝D̴̙͕͇͖͙̯͉̞̻̭̰ͥ͗ͯ͂ͮͫ̏ͯ̓̐͛͊ͬ̓̍̇̚͟͟Ȩ̸̡͇̪͉̤̝̖̣̻̞͎̘̘̩̠̰ͩ̓̅̐ͣͯ̔̏͗͆̎͒ͭ͐͊̒̏͠ͅS̴̘̦̬̫̲͎͑̑̑̈ͭ͘T̑̊͗̑̃̃̆͑͂͗̈́͝҉̟̬̳͕̼͖̘̞͎͓Ŗ̴̷̹̟̝̻̮̰͖̗͔̬͎͉̺̹̮͚͖ͬ͐̅̇͂̂ͨ̓̀̔͂͆͂̽ͪ͝ͅO̡̡̧̟̼̠͇̯͕̩͇̫̺̜̼̰͎̫͍͆ͫ̎ͧŸ́̉̓̓̒̈ͥ̍͛͆͐ͪ͏̡͈̟̝̰̻͚̦̺͎̯̠͍̰͉̖̦̟E̶̛̎͊̿͑͝͏͖͕͉ͅD̬͖̰͈̤͉ͭͩ̈́̽̄̇̓̉̒͒̑̅͋ͯ̾̐̓ͫ͘͡ͅͅͅ

 

Chloe is on her knees, thorns digging into her skin as she assesses what the hell has happened to her love. She can’t tell where the roses end and Connor begins. She doesn’t know whether stripping him of his binds could kill him. She doesn’t know what to _do_.

Frostbitten hands reach up to cup Connor’s face. He makes no reason to the contact, his lips stuck in their tightly-locked grimace. But she can feel him, if only as a dull force against her lifeless digits. He’s here.

“Connor? C-Connor can you hear me?” She jostles his head lightly, the vines holding him firmly in place. “C-C-Connie, w-wake up. Wake up-p, Connie. Pl- _lease_.”

Her teeth are clattering uncontrollably. She could freeze right here after fighting so hard to reach him. Chloe lifts a hand from Connor’s cheek and wraps it around the prickly wreath covering his sight. Her other hand soon follows suit. She tugs. It does not give way. She tugs harder. It buckles, but stays in one piece.

Chloe is reminded of a blaring red wall, one she once thought could never be broken either. If she can be proven wrong once, she can be proven wrong again.

She strengthens her grip, unable to feel the tightness but sure of her hold. Gritting her teeth, she pulls back with all her might, thorns slicing at her skin. Thirium slips onto her fingers, her grip slacken, but Chloe will not let go.

She pulls and pulls and pulls, rising to her feet, pushing against Connor’s legs, until finally there’s a satisfying _SNAP_.

The vines shrivel and withdraw from Connor’s features. Creases occur in the corners of his eyes and between his brows. Chloe kneels in front of him once again, brushing blue blood from the scraps along his cheekbones.

With strenuous effort, Connor’s eyes finally open.

“C…Chloe…”

Chloe gasps with incredulous relief. “Connor. I-I’m here. I’m here. I’m g-gonna get y-y-you out of h-here. Oh, Connor…”

She can’t revel in her victory for too long. Chloe moves to the next bundle of vines wrapped around Connor’s chest. There is a newfound energy coursing through her as she breaks through their hold.

“What d-did Amanda do to you?”

 

**July 2, 2040**

**1:55 PM EDT**

 

Androids are filling in at a constant rate, the hall full to bursting in less than ten minutes.

Allen and the SWAT members are trying to keep the peace, ushering people into orderly-fashioned lines that come undone within seconds. Dozens upon dozens of androids have made it into the operating room, and North has to usher Simon into a corner to make sure he doesn’t get further injured in the commotion.

Yet somehow, some civility is kept. Hank directs everyone to the jumbled mess that is connecting androids and shows them who to hold hands with. One by one, another android joins the party.

Hank just prays it’ll be enough.

A familiar android pushes his way frantically up to Hank, somehow finding their way through a crowd that rivals that of Black Friday back in the lieutenant’s retail days.

“How the hell you’d get past your security detail-?” Hank can’t help but ask.

“Where’s Simon?” Markus asks-no, _demands_. He is a man on a mission, a lover with everything to lose.

Hank wastes no time quelling his racing fear. “Back on that far wall with North. He’s fine. Everyone’s fine. Go find them, and join the others.”

Markus nods. He puts a heavy hand on Hank’s shoulder. “ _Thank you_.”

He vanishes before Hank can reply. Two lives saved. Four including those that have been carted away for immediate care.

Hank is still counting on two more.

 

H̙͈͖̤̤̘̺͙͔̩̻͔̼̜͘͞ͅE̴̮͕̺̯̯͢͝͠ ̨̨̺͇̫̣̞͔̠͞͠I̶̗̗̤͎͖̺̙̕͜S͚͍̳̦̲͚͈͘ ̵͓̥͇͖̦̠̭͠ͅU̸̢͍̪͖͕͝N̛͕͎̰͖̙̫̮̤̣͔̳͘͡D̡̫̮̜̦̱̙͔̯E̶̢̠͓͙̱͓̭͞͠R̵̢̤̻̙̱̲̳͖̮͘͜ ̡̜͔͓̗̺̯̗̳͜͝M͏̛̳̻͙͈̻̗̝͉͡Y̵̛͖͙̗̼̗͈̹̣͟͞ ͝҉̛̝̩̠̪̥̖͚̤̕͢Ç̛̭̼̭̼̫͎̰O̵̧̻̖͚̫̻͎͇͖̳͙̹͢͞N̶̶̨̨͓̤̪͇͎̝̥͓͕̜̰͢T̷̡̛̤͈̜̝̟̥̪̖̦̹̝̱͇͠͡ͅͅͅR̫̮̺͍̻̣̼̰̰̲̜͔̳̟͘͟͢Ọ̳͔̙̬̘̟̳̼̝͢͠ͅL̷̺̰̫͍͟  
̷̷̺͉͈̱̝͓̝̲͔̠̯̫̰            Ş̬͔̖͘͟͠T̷͕̻̮̜̱̝̮̦͚̦̙̙̹͈͕͓͇̥͝ͅO͚̬̝̻͎̣̞̻̟̦̩̤̟͘ͅP͟͏̗̻̰͓̻̣̹̼͈̞̠̝͖̩̹̳͘  
̴̢̙̦͙̤̪͉̗͈͉̘̺͇͝            Y̡҉̰̥͚̱̫̥͘O͞͏͏͕̱̙̼U̸̖̫̼͈̩͘͢͢ ̴̢̳̹̺̮̩͙C͟͞҉͍̣̳̞̥͇͉͔̯̟͙͖A̢̮͕͔̯̬͉̳̪͔͖̺̣̲̤͢ͅͅN̸̞̭̥̱̳͈̲̝͍̜͉͘͠ͅŅ̵̣͚̗̤̜̗͈͖͔͘O̷̢͎̹͕T̨̮̭̻̝̳̳̠̜̬͙͙̬͠ ̷̵̧͔͉̫͍̟̕B̵̷͏̦̦̦̩̱̰̫̼͚̼̩̫̭̬͓̘̰̩͖R̼̹͙̥͕̰̮̟̜͢͞E͞҉̷̵̘̠̱̱̩̤̖͉̦̱̠̲̳Ḁ̝͙͙̙͎̙̬̬̗͎̟͔̞̼̗͓̕͟K̛҉̞̜͎͇̭̯̥͜ ҉͙̘̪̩͎͉̕͜A̷̠̝͙͔̜̯͖͚̣͈̰͖̰͖͉̲͜W̶̩̮͍͕͈͕̺̖̞͍̠͇͡͞A̡҉̰̰̭͎̼̗Y̶̢̹̩͇̟̥̭͟ ͢͏̧̹͈̗͚̯̤F̜̣̗͖̼̰̳̻̥̩͎͔͈̜͍͘͜͡͝ͅR̶͚̖̖͇̖̙̞̖̱̫͖͙͜O̜͙͍̼͉̼̭͍͉͕̯̠̹̦͍̙̘̫͟͡M̸̻̰̫͍̞̣̟̯̙̰͙̙͟ͅͅ ̴͓͔̦̭͈̺̝M̨͙͖̗̘͎̺̤͉̪̘̥̯̗̠̱͉̘̜͞͠E̼̮̮͝

 

They are drenched in their own blood, a mess of blue spreading across the fabric that fails to keep them warm. Chloe is thankful for the loss of feeling in her hands now; she’s sure if she could still feel she wouldn’t be able to maintain the pace she’s keeping now.

Connor is slowly coming to. _Slowly_. He has the focus of an adolescent whose gotten drunk for the first time, his half-lidded eyes having trouble staying on one object at a time. Mostly his gaze will stick to Chloe. He’ll moan out her name whenever she manages to pry another patch of vines off of him, and the sound is killing Chloe fast than the cold ever could.

She breaks away a particularly thick grouping around Connor’s waist, and thirium starts gushing out of him at an alarming rate.

He cries, face twisting into a mangled mess of discomfort and terror. The sound is inhumane, one of a wounded animal.

Chloe applies pressure against the wound until the temperature freezes it shut for her. She has lost the feeling in her lower arms. There’s not much time left.

Only one more bond to break around his neck, and she has avoided that area for obvious reasons. Chloe soothes Connor back into a whimpering silence, then carefully slides her hands around the mound. It has to come free in one, successful tug. Any more of a struggle and disaster will strike.

“O-One m-m-more, Connie…J-Just one m-more.”

She braces herself, channels the last of her strength, and-

“Elijah Kamski’s first creation.”

Chloe stops. There is only one other person in here that voice could be coming from.

“You are getting in my way.”

More vines crawl out of the lattice wall and encase Connor in a finely-knit cocoon. Chloe’s hands are ensnared in its mass. She presses her knuckles against Connor’s neck to protect the parts that are most vulnerable. More blood trickles out of the gaps between the thorns.

“No! C-Connor! Connor, can you hear m-me?!”

A shadow falls over the prone couple. Chloe turns as far as her upper body will allow her. Towering over them is a woman burning with absolute malice, a darkness in her gaze no light could ever drown out. Her lips are curled into a fierce snarl, her brows tightly knit, her eyes furious.

Amanda.

“You and Lieutenant Anderson have stripped me of my purpose. You have put me in a position where my only option is to deactivate painfully, and not on my own terms. So if I am going down-“

She reaches down and grasps two large chunks of Chloe’s matted hair, dragging them back from her scalp. Fire pours over Chloe’s head as strand after strand of blonde comes loose from her body.

“-I am taking you all with me.”

It makes sense now. The cold. The numbness. The frost. This is Amanda corrupting her before she has the chance to undue her spell on Connor. She has to fight back. She has the cure. Surely Elijah gave her the cure. Surely he did.

Even if he never meant for her to leave that mansion. Even if he was willing to die and kill her with him.

No. The transfer was real. Chloe can sense the coding flowing within her, urging her not to give in so easily. She has fought too hard to die now. She has lost too much not to gain anything from all this pain.

She refuses to let others dictate how her life will go.

Chloe screams out in vicious protest, and flowers spring from the snow.

Amanda releases her, hands flying back to her sides in shock. She watches mouth agape as the flowers continue to grow and grow, like bean stocks tall enough to touch the sky. Tulips, sunflowers, violets, and of course lilacs, raise higher and higher until they begin to wrap themselves around the posts of the patio. The bloom vibrant yellows and greens and pinks, overtaking every speck of white there once was.

A warm wind slams Chloe from behind, but its force softens after it gains a steadier sense of direction. The snow melts at an impossible speed, water dripping off the wooden boards above their head. Chloe is soaked in a calming shower, feeling returning to her hands in electrical currents.

She’s pulling at the rose vines again before Amanda can get a word in, the garden show still occurring all around her. The bindings are far more brittle now, coming off Connor effortlessly and without much injury to either of them. His neck is exposed, then his eyes, his arms, his chest-

Ice-cold hands grab onto her shoulders and wretch her away from him. Chloe hits the stone floor without anything to lessen the impact. She is dazed, her thoughts jumbled. There is an agonizing throb inside her head.

Amanda steps closer, her hands shaking fists at her sides. “You were better off as Kamski’s little, submissive pet.”

She lifts up the drapes of her gown just far enough to reveal a sharply heeled shoe. Her foot is raised, and all Chloe can do to defend herself is close her eyes.

But the heel never comes down. There are footsteps, and when Chloe opens her eyes Amanda is backing away.

“What…what is happening…?”

Chloe sits up and follows her line of sight. Standing all throughout the blossoming garden are androids of all sizes and serial numbers. More and more of them are appearing by the second, dawning clothes that perfectly match the warmer weather that has taken hold of the AI’s threshold. They are looking towards the patio, cheering Chloe on or hurling obscenities at Amanda that could make a grown adult cower. Only their mouths are moving; there must be limitations on how much they can assist.

Amanda’s entire body is shaking, her hands pawing at her robes. “No…n-no…Stop this…Get out of m-my garden!”

She clutches her head, almost falling to the floor. Chloe leans against the nearest pole to help guide herself to her feet. Her head is pounding and hands are expelling thirium like a faucet, but she’s not done yet. She limps over to Connor and kneels one last time. A single thorny bind remains around his shoulders.

“T-There’s…t-there’s t-t-too m-many of-f them…” Amanda stutters. “I can’t…You…How d-did y-y-you get t-them in?”

Chloe tears the last of the vines off Connor effortlessly. She slings an arm under his armpit and around his back. Gradually, she pulls him up to lean against her. He sways for a moment then finds his footing, albeit unstable.

“They’re not with me,” Chloe grunts, shifting Connor so she doesn’t fall over herself. “Guess someone’s looking out for us on the outside.”

Connor’s head slumps against hers. She pats his back.

“You know where the exit is, babe?”

Connor groans. “Behind…us…”

Chloe sighs fondly. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

They trip over themselves just to get around the lattice wall, the roses covering it withering away into nothing but husks that turn to dust underneath their feet. The androids behind them have formed a chant, calling out there names in unison as they step closer and closer to home.

There’s a single pedestal waiting for them on the other side of the bridge. It’s such a clear marker Chloe regrets making Connor waste his breath. The walk over takes an eternity as Connor needs to catch said breath every few steps he takes.

At one paint, his knees wobble and Chloe has to hold him completely in her arms. “Connie-?”

“I’m okay,” he rasps. “I’m…okay…Let’s keep going…”

They do, and not a minute later he is using the exit pedestal as a crutch as Chloe wipes her excess blood on her pant legs. She holds out her newly-cleaned hand for him to take, and he does so gladly.

“What’s going to happen…to us…?” he inquires, still breathless.

Chloe smiles. “We wake up. Hank will be there when we do.”

Fatigue plaques Connor deeply, but he smiles brighter than the golden lilies brushing against their ankles. “Hank…He’s okay…”

“He’s just fine. He’s been working hard to bring you home. You ready to see him?”

Connor’s smile fades suddenly. He glances behind them and Chloe looks too.

Amanda is standing at the end of the bridge, trying desperately to reach them. She is a quivering mess, but blind rage molds her features into quite the terrifying sight.

“I-I will a-always b-be a p-part of y-you, Connor…You w-will _n-never_ be r-r-rid of m-me!”

Without breaking eye contact, Connor places their hands over the panel on top of the pedestal. “Maybe…but you will never be rid of me, either.”

Amanda’s eyes widen in fear, and she bolts in a final attempt to prevent what she is powerless to undo. Before she can cover any ground, white petals blood up the sides of her gown.

No, the petals are a part of her. She is turning into lilacs.

Amanda claws at the flowers, tearing them off her form only for new ones to take their place. She tears away again and again until they encase her fully. She reaches towards them, but her arm becomes stuck in midair.

Amanda becomes nothing more but another fixture in her garden.

Then everything turns to white.

 

T̅ͯ̚hͦi̎ͩͧͦ̾ͯsͤͥ̔͒̍̅͟ ̿ͪ̿ͤ͡is ͬ̃̑ͫ͊ͧ͟nͬͧ͊ͥ̉ͬͣo̷͐̆̃̃̚t̾ͬͨ̚ ́̿̃ͭ̎ͪ͂tͣͧhͪͧ̎̽ͭ̒è̇̽҉ ͬ͏e̐̇̌̚͘nd̉ͧ͗ͣ͋͞  
͜            Mä̿ͤyͬ̇b̀͋ë́̌ ̂͒̄͑̇I̎ ̄̐ͬ͌͛̅̚͜aͮͨ͆̊͛͂̋͘m̛̈́̋̃ ̴̀ͦͣͬ̾ͮ̀âͣͨͩ͐ͨ̽͝l͏iͧve̢͊̎

**2:01 PM EDT**

 

Connor opens his eyes.

There is no pain. There is no blood dripping into his eyes. There is only Chloe’s face peering down at him.

“Hey,” she whispers, as if talking any louder would break the magical spell keeping their greatest hopes a reality.

“Hey,” he whispers back. He smiles. She smiles back. They’re free.

Chloe leans back, nodding her head up to motion him to rise. Connor pushes himself onto his elbows, then gradually sits with his head parallel to the ceiling of a room he has never been in before.

And then there’s Hank, kneeling in front of Connor alive and weeping. He has deep, dark circles under his eyes, which his tears glisten off of as they drip into his beard.

Connor takes a breath just to set it free. “Hank…”

Hank huffs out a coarse, wet laugh. “W-Welcome back, son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for getting me this far :) Happy holidays and thank you all also for 14,000+ hits!!!


	27. Moving On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank makes a quick stop. Gavin tries to break the law. Chloe brings a gift. Morris does her job. Connor moves on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got to play detroit and it's so GOOD. the writing still sucks, BUT THE GAME IS SO GOOD
> 
> Thank you all for being so patient during the wait! I took a mental health break during the holidays and I'm back in (mostly) full swing. Gotta love depression, right? I hope you all had a happy holiday and a happy new year!
> 
> oh yeah, CHA BOI TURNED 17 OVER THE BREAK. that's right, you've been reading a story by an angsty teen this whole time

**July 2, 2040**

**2:13 PM EDT**

 

Once Jericho’s residents have filed out almost completely from the hallway, a swarm of paramedics whisks them all to the nearest hospital

Which makes sense. They did all get fucking decked by Amanda.

The victims are separated once they reach the posse of ambulances assembled in Jericho’s front courtyard. Markus manages to sneak a ride alongside Simon, never once letting his husband’s hand go, while North is sent to another. When someone rips their heart out of their chest, it’s safe to make sure everything is still in working order.

Hank summons the last of his energy to keep up with the first responders, but this week has taken a harsh toll on the lieutenant. His muscles throb with every pitiful jog he takes, and his joints ache to the point they could fall apart. Now that Connor is safe, his brain finally remembers supposed to be swelled up like a balloon and is screaming like a failed round of _Operation_.

He feels shitty, but he feels shitter for all the words he still has yet to tell Connor, but his son is lead into the back of an ambulance before he can reach him. Hank stops running, leaning over onto his knees to watch his breath, and watches as the vehicle becomes nothing but a speck farther down the road.

Connor is fine. Hank is going to see him again. But for so long this hasn’t been the case, and this flipped reality is taking its time to settle in. He didn’t even see which ambulance Chloe was ushered into, or Richard. There’s no telling what the afternoon traffic is like, or if there are any planes flying too low over the city, or

Someone levies two delicate pats to his back. Hank glances over his shoulder and sees Tina giving him a sympathetic smile. “Let me give you a ride.”

Gratitude takes the form of a smile on Hank’s face. “We…w-we gotta make one stop before we see ‘em. You okay with that?”

 

**July 2, 2040**

**4:20 PM EDT**

 

What rouses Gavin back to consciousness first is the harsh sting of chemicals shooting through his nostrils. It’s a sterile, bitter smell that makes his eyes water, and also makes the bland taste of his own saliva even more prevalent on the back of his tongue.

He tastes a hint of copper, too. Last Gavin checked he wasn’t licking pennies like some five-year-old. Well, maybe when he was five he was.

Sluggishly, and with a fair amount of effort, his eyelids slide open. His reward is a sight full of blinding white light that burns his retinas. With a hiss, he shuts his eyes again.

“Gavin?”

It’s Connor. Or it could be Connor. Gavin is still a bit out of it, but last he checked there were actually two Connors. Detroit’s favorite plastic detective, and the lovable-

“Rich…that you man?”

His voice sounds nothing like his own. It’s muffled in his ears, and far too strangled. Almost as if someone had ripped through his throat, grabbed his lungs, and tied them into a knot. A glass of water would do wonders for him right now.

Something cold and sloshing presses against his fingertips, condensation rubbing off against them. Gavin can’t help the gasp that escapes him, but he covers it up quickly by bringing the glass up to his lips. Heavenly aqua slides down his throat with ease, and the relief from his scraggly hell is instantaneous.

“Oh, that’s the good shit…” He takes one last gulp just for good measure before holding the glass out for Richard to take. “Thanks Rich.”

He takes another stab at opening his eyes, and with fluids back in his system he is able to fight through the pain. The classic hospital environment surrounds him, with the monitors, off-white bed sheets, and everything. Gavin’s arms are crawling with IVs and wristbands, the underside of his fingernails stained with blood.

Ah, the penny taste. What good detective work on his part, honestly.

To his left, Richard is staring straight through him, fidgeting on the edge of his chair. To put it lightly, the investigator looks like shit. His irises have shrunken to an almost microscopic state, and dried blood has dried to his face like freckles. Whatever happened to him in that operating room isn’t leaving his mind for a long time.

“You a’ight?” Gavin croaks. “Didn’t get hurt ‘r nothin’?”

 Richard crumples in on himself, his head falling limply to his chest. “No…I’m fine…I’m perfectly fine…”

“You sure sound fine-!“ Gavin winces, breath leaving him as he attempts to his up. His entire lower half ignites into flames, the worst of the inferno trailing up his chest. Bubbling tar swirls in his gut, black spots dancing in his vision. “ _Oh_ fuck.”

There are gentle hands on his shoulders pressing him back against the bed. “You shouldn’t try to move. I’m surprised y-you even woke up this early.”

“I got…fucked up pretty bad, didn’t I?” Gavin chuckles, which is a mistake. A violent twinge of pain shoots up his spine. Looks like he’ll be riding desk duty for a while.

When Richard doesn’t offer a witty response back, he finally catches onto his partner’s distress. “Hey, Rich. Buddy. Whatever the hell happened wasn’t you…It wasn’t, right?”

Richard nurses his lower lip with his teeth, shaking his head once. “I…Amanda…I-I couldn’t do anything. She made me take your gun and-”

His voice cuts out, nothing more but a garbled mess by the end. Gavin can take a beating like no other, but comforting people is way out of his ball park. Rather awkwardly, he puts a hand on Richard’s arm and runs it up and down the scoop of his upper bicep. “Not like I haven’t been shot before. Just part of…part of the job description. You all good, though? No more psychotic AIs taking over you anytime soon?”

Richard stares off into space. “Not to my understanding…With Amanda subdued, I sh-should be safe.”

Gavin blinks. “Sub…Oh _shit_. Connor? How’s Connor?”

A small smile pulls at Richard’s lips. “He’s perfectly fine. All in part to Chloe and Lieutenant Anderson’s quick thinking. They saved our lives. Everyone’s.”

The cinderblock on top of Gavin’s ribs is finally taken off. He sighs loud and obnoxiously, reviling in this Cinderella ending. “Sweet Jesus. We got damn lucky, that’s what we got Rich.”

Richard laughs silently. “Maybe.”

“So, uh…how messed up am I?” Gavin works up the nerve to ask.

“You…you lost quite a lot of blood. Internally and externally,” Richard informs him, expression darkening. “The buffet lodged itself near your pancreas….It’s a miracle you’re still alive.”

Gavin only nods, not willing to take a nosedive into the issue of his mortality currently. “Well, good to know I don’t have to piss out of a catheter the rest of my life.”

“I…don’t think that’s how that works,” Richard cringes. “The worst injury you could’ve sustained, besides, death, would have been paralysis.”

The edge of the diving board is tempting to peer over, but Gavin just can’t be bothered to right now. “I’m guessin’ I’m not gonna be doing a lot of walkin’ for a while anyway though, huh?”

“Certainly _not_.” Richard’s warning is cloaked in his answer. Some tingly feeling worms its way to Gavin’s heart, and he is pretty sure it’s not something the docs can fix. Nor that he wants it to be. “Your stay here I’m certain will be indefinite.”

Gavin groans. “I fucking hate hospitals…so boring and creepy…think you could sneak me home in a body bag?”

Richard gives him A Look. That tingly feelings travels higher up to Gavin’s cheeks.

“ _Fine_. God, a guy just wants to heal in his own apartment.”

“I’m sure you could transform your hospital room into a more adequate living space…with help,” Richard suggests. His gaze is firmly fixated on Gavin’s heart monitor.

Gavin smirks. “I got a spare key to my place in my jacket. I’ll give you the address and a list of shit to grab.”

Richard’s eyes light up, and perhaps for the first time that day he is able to fight off the obvious guilt leeching off him. “Whatever you need.”

“Alright, _listen_. In my TV cabinet is a portable DVD player. Y’know, the junk they used in the olden days. But this is a fucking emergency. ‘Cause you can’t drag my flat screen in here with my DVR all set up...I know you know this, but LISTEN. You gotta find the _Die Hard_ case under there too. You gotta bring _both_ or else we can’t watch the movie. Second, there’s a duffel bag in my bedroom closet. Take that, put my cat in there with some kibble, and sneak her up here…No we’re not gonna get in trouble. Trust me, I’m a cop. I know what’s illegal and what’s not…”

 

**July 2, 2040**

**4:29 PM EDT**

 

  _This_ , Connor decides, after spending over the past half year in constant conflict with Amanda and having to stay silent about his struggles at the cost of his loved ones, _is hell_.

Sitting all alone in a hospital room, in total silence, waiting for his visitor restriction to be lifted.

The restriction, albeit frustrating, insufferable, and personally insulting, is fair in some respects. Connor _was_ taken over by a homicidal program that nearly took the lives of two of his friends and a Jericho employee. There is reasonable concern to double-check Connor’s programming now, after the success of Chloe’s transfer, to make sure absolutely no more dubious acts of violence will be made.

Several, several tests later, by several, _several_ android technicians, Connor is “officially” deemed free of Amanda’s control. However, he is still not free visitation restriction, which was put in place while his tests were underway. As he waits for his right of socializing to be returned to him, there is no one to keep him company except his own terrifying thoughts.

To coin a term Hank is fond of, it fucking sucks.

He is a powder keg ready to explode. His synthetic skin itches for a kind smile, for a hand shake, _anything_.  Being deprived of any form of contact is a form of accidental punishment his mental state could do without, especially after all that’s happened.

A simple solution would to communicate with an android directly. The results would be instant and the reward oh so sweet. Connor should do it; he even braces himself for it. Count to three and open a link. Count to three and talk to Chloe. One, two…

He can’t do it.

Well, he _can_ do it, but his uncanny hesitation makes it seem like a much more impossible feat.

After so much time, and so many coverups, what can he say? What _should_ he say?

He wants to say he’s sorry. Sorry for the bloodshed. Sorry for all the pain he’s caused. Sorry he wasn’t strong enough to save himself. Sorry sorry _sorry_ -

The handle on the door creaks softly as it’s turned. Connor stiffens, a million thoughts and feelings swelling inside him. He breathes heavily as the door swings open. A small figure steps into the room, smashing a hole right through his prison wall.

Blonde hair cascades down her back, with diverting streams that flow down her shoulders. A baggy sweatshirt swallows her torso, minus her forearms as the sleeves have been pushed back to her elbows. Dangling from one hand is a plastic bag filled with garments. The other is empty and trembling.

Blue eyes meet brown. Both pairs are filled with tears.

Chloe breaks into a wide, lopsided grin. “Got a present for you.”

Connor just stares. He analyzes her, tucking the data away into his new brain hastily before it can be ripped away. He takes in this moment, and her radiate cheeks, and the afternoon light streaming through the blinds, and holds onto it desperately.

This is real.

This is _real_.

When he stands, no snow crunches under his feet. No flowers brush against his pant legs. There is hard tile, and then there is nothing.

Because Chloe leaps into his arms and he’s swept into the air. They land back on his hospital bed, holding onto each other like the world is burning, weeping, shaking, mumbling words they’ve held in for six months. A most indescribable relief takes hold of him, filling his every being with an energy greater than that of the suns. Of the universe.

He is the Big Bang, personified as a man of plastic, silicone, and love. He is every bit of thriving aquatic life in the untouched parts of the sea, existing without worry of the dangers of another world. He has fought for his right to live in this serenity, and he will savor every second he spends in it.

The seconds he spends cradling Chloe are precious and pure in a way he has never known. He is experiencing an emotion the rush of the android revolution only allowed him a taste of. To know he has survived such a great deal and has been rewarded with the liberty of life and compassion. It first took the form of Hank outside the Chicken Feed, and the embrace he shared then is still one he holds dear.

Holding Chloe is similar, but different in a way that Hank’s hug cannot replicate. Maybe it’s due to their separate histories and the time it took to reach each embrace. Maybe it’s because Connor is experiencing each one on dissimilar levels of maturity, of growth.

Whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter. Connor is still holding Chloe. Chloe is still holding Connor. Neither is willing to let go.

Connor presses his face into the abundance of her hair. The fabricated locks cushion his cheekbone against her collar. “You’re not hurt, are you? Please tell me I didn’t-“

“You didn’t do a damn thing to me,” Chloe answers breathlessly. “I’m just fine. I’m just fine, Connie.”

He holds her tighter, not wanting to imagine a world where she gave the opposite answer. “I love you. I love you so much.”

“I know. I know you do. I love you too. Oh Connie, I love you so _much_.”

They break together once again, turning into nothing more than garbled sobs and shaking limbs. All that needs to be said is expressed without words, and what still needs verbal confirmation can wait much, much longer.

Composing herself, Chloe leans off of him, but the distance is no bigger than a foot. Her hands never leave his torso. “I have some good news and some bad news.”

Connor has had enough bad news to last a lifetime, but he wants the band aid pulled off sooner rather than later. He winces, bracing himself for the sting. “Bad news first?”

“The doctors told me you can’t leave the room yet.”

“What? Why?” If it were any other day, he would be embarrassed about how much his words come out as a whine.

Chloe huffs with a roll of her eyes. “It’s just a precaution, but I mean…they tested you already. They tested me already and said I was fine! It’s a non-issue…but you have to hang here for just a little bit longer.”

Connor frowns, but being bitter just isn’t worth his time anymore. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and opens them again. “Okay. That’s…that’s fine. What’s the good news?”

A fonder expression takes hold of Chloe’s features. “Hank brought you some-oh shit, where’d it go?” She pulls completely away from him, standing back on her own feet as she searches for the bag she brought with her. Her absence is an ice bath, and Connor finds himself reaching for her even when her back is turned. Thankfully, it isn’t long before Chloe finds her belongings and sets them back on the bed. She takes his hand in hers.

“Hank brought you a change of clothes. He told me to make sure you got comfortable. I think he’s worried about you being in solitary consignment.”

Connor’s free hand is already pulling at the loose knot on top of the bag when he pauses. “Now Chloe, you know this isn’t solitary confinement. This is just for my _protection_. This is in no way unreasonable paranoia.”

Chloe snorts, and they burst into giggles not unlike the kind salty teenagers partake in. Connor goes quiet before her, staring at the bag of clothes with longing.

“Hank’s worried about me, though, huh…?”

Chloe squeezes his hand. “He’s a lot hairier in person than you described him.”

The comment earns a quick smirk from Connor. “I can’t imagine what I’ve put him through…How did he even know where to find you?”

Chloe blinks. “I….I don’t know, actually. We must’ve slipped up somewhere along the way.”

“I’m glad we did.”

She smiles. “You’re _here_.”

“ _You’re_ here.”

They take another moment just to look at one another, wanting nothing more than for their lingering anxieties to leave them, before Chloe gives him a nudge. “Change into something that isn’t full of bullet holes.”

Connor obliges, finally digging into his goodie bag of clean clothes. He pulls out a pair of sweatpants, the first pair in fact he ever bought for himself. Briefly, he wonders if Hank remembers their significance. Then he pulls out a pair of socks printed with various dog breeds. It was one of the gifts Hank gave to him his first Christmas, even if the lieutenant doesn’t bother with normal holiday traditions that often, if at all.

Obvious thought has gone into Hank’s selection. Connor takes the humble act to heart, his vision blurring . Blinking rapidly, he reaches into the bag for the last piece of clothing.

When he unfolds it, he feels his thirium pump jackhammer in his chest.

It’s a shirt he’s kept underneath his uniform for months. He hides it at the bottom of his dresser to avoid arousing suspicion, and whenever he suspects a case will turn messy. It’s certainly not an article Hank should know even exists.

His ace shirt.

Connor stares at the shirt, then at Chloe, then back to the shirt.

“Shit.”

 

**July 2, 2040**

**4:32 PM EDT**

 

The world is spinning.

Actually, it’s always spinning. However, this time instead of keeping a constant, unseen rotation, it tilts and sways, blurring around the edges of Morris’ vision. It’s like she’s the protagonist of a movie that relies too heavily on shaky cam.

She rubs at her eyes, groaning at the pressure beneath her skull and the bridge of her nose. Breathing now consists of shoving a punch of fire ants up her nostrils and trying to keep them up there until she gets enough oxygen in her lungs. Also her lungs are whoopy cushions and everything’s in flames.

“I want to dieeeeeee.”

“No, you don’t.”

Morris opens her eyes, shooting Simon a glare. The android is tucked perfectly into his hospital bed, as cozy and smug as can be. Half of his white plating is still exposed on his right side but he remains in good spirits, despite the fact no one seems to know how to fix his plating issue.

“Let me whine in peace.”

“Then get your own room.”

“But I don’t wanna leeeeeave.”

“Suffer then.”

Morris rises from her chair like Dracula from his coffin. “You are a cold, heartless bastard.”

Simon laughs, cheerful and light. “If you’re sticking around just to keep an eye on me, Markus already has that covered.”

Morris crosses her arms, scowling. “Not right now he isn’t. Maybe when he gets back, I’ll give you your peace.”

He gives a silent chuckle. As he does, his right eye gives a shuddery twitch. Morris’ gut churns. Her scowl loses its playful edge.

“You saved my life.”

Simon blinks, puzzled. “You don’t sound happy about that.”

“Of course I’m not happy. You almost _died_ , you idiot.” She crosses the room, her arms falling to her sides as she approaches him. “Where you even thinking about Markus? Or anyone else?”

“He was going to shoot you,” Simon reminds her. His tone is even, too even. “I couldn’t just let that happen. I know you don’t place your own needs very high on your priority list…but there are people at Jericho that would mourn you a great deal.”

Morris bites at her lower lip, almost hard enough to draw blood. Deprecation takes hold of her consciousness, doing its damn best to convince her every word that just came out of Simon’s mouth is wrong. It must be wrong. It’s always been wrong.

But the world is upside down and what’s wrong is now right. Hank didn’t risk precious time by not drilling that into her head.

“They’d mourn you too…but thanks.”

She whispers it, and for a moment she’s afraid Simon will ask her to repeat what she said, but instead he’s beaming. “You’re welcome, Karen.”

Morris nods, gaze shifting to her blood-splattered loafers. “Just don’t do anything that stupid _ever_ again.”

“I’ll try.”

She rolls her eyes.

The door to the room swings open, and Markus rushes in as if hell were on his heels. Briskly, he returns to his husband’s side, taking Simon’s hand as if he’ll expire any moment. “Hey…hey.”

Simon shakes his head, squeezing Markus’ hand in his. “I’m still here, love. Did you find her?”

“Yeah, she’s here. Chloe?”

On cue, Chloe steps through the doorway, leaving it wide open before her. She takes one last glance down the hall before stepping in completely, obviously wanting to be somewhere else. Regardless, she flashes the couple a kind smile. “Hello Simon. I’m glad you’re alright.”

Simon stares at her as if she’s rA9 incarnated. “I…I hope Markus didn’t tear you away from something important just for my sake.”

“Oh no! No!” She insists, giving a quick shrug. “Nothing too important. You know, just…Connor…”

Morris and Simon eye Markus down. The revolutionary hero pales, metaphorically of course. “I did do that…sorry…”

“It’s fine. Really,” Chloe assures him. “Connor will still be here after I help you. I assume all we have to do is interface. Eli-…Kamski never told me the specifics.”

This is where Morris takes charge. “I have authorization to use all this equipment in here.” She makes her way somewhat cautiously to Chloe, unsure whether her savior is comfortable to handshakes or not. Most people are, but Morris isn’t exactly a “people person.” She holds her hand out, but she hesitates and holds it way too close to Chloe’s face. “D-Doctor Morris.”

Chloe, bless her android soul, takes a step back and shakes Morris’ hand. “You…you’re the one who saved Connor’s life.”

“Technically, that was you,” Morris reminds her, pulling her hand away.

“You saved him before I did, though,” Chloe offers. “And I…thank you. Thank you so much.”

Blood rushes to Morris’ cheeks. Oh wow. _Wow_. Connor is a lucky man. “Just doing my j-job. Uh…let’s get started?”

They begin the procedure, when though technically Morris doesn’t have clearance to run it in her condition. Hopefully everything goes to plan so she doesn’t have a felony on her hands (She assumes this would be a felony. She’s a doctor, not a lawyer). She sits Chloe in a chair on Simon’s right and has her take his corrupted hand. After prying Markus away from his spouse, she grabs a cable hooked up to the extra monitor in the room and asks Chloe to expose the back of her neck for her.

“This won’t hurt. I promise.”

“I know.” Chloe’s hair recedes to her roots, her skin turning the same silvery consistency as Simon’s. Morris’ fingers are still as she opens the port on her neck and snaps the cable into place. It’s the same routine she’s performed her entire career, the process so embedded in her mind it may be tattooed against her brain matter.

Morris motions for Markus to join her at his side. They back up to the monitor, allowing the blonde androids their space. “Whenever you’re ready, go for it.”

Chloe takes a deep breath, locks eyes with Simon, and they both go under.

Morris sense Markus tense beside her, but with enough foresight in mind she already has him at her side to comfort. Going out of her own sphere of social interaction, especially considering this is her _boss_ , she places a hand on his shoulder and grips it hard. Markus jolts, glancing at her. She’s not ready to look back.

Then there’s an arm snaking around her own shoulders, pulling her in for an awkward employee/superior embrace. Or it would be awkward if it didn’t feel so _nice_. If Morris didn’t feel so safe, so trusted, so cared for. She can’t remember the last time anyone has held her like this. Tears gather in the corners of her eyes, and damn her glasses for making it impossible to casually sweep them away. She takes a shuddery breath, hoping Markus doesn’t notice her lost composure.

He does, and only holds her tighter.

The door jimmies open again, and before Morris can stop herself old habits kick in. She throws herself out of Markus’ arms, pushing her glasses off her face as her knuckles press against her watery eyes. Just as she makes herself presentable, Lieutenant Anderson walks into the room. He seems misplaced, his eyes darting around the room with the knowledge he shouldn’t be here.

“Sorry I’ll just, uh-“

“You’re fine, Hank,” Markus assures him. “Have you been making rounds through the hospital?”

Hank pats his sides clumsily, trying to find his pant pockets to give his hands something to grab onto. “Yep. Checkin’ in on everybody, making sure we’re all good. Stopped a doc to ask a couple questions about my…nah, never mind. Forget I said anything…How ya doing, Karen?”

Morris smacks her palm against her skull. “Concussion solidarity, my man. Apparently I was just shy of a fully fractured skull, so that’s fun.”

Hank’s lips press into a firm line, his eyes widening. “That is fun.” His line of sight goes ballistic again, flying from object in the room to another. Morris watches him in a trance before addressing the elephant in the room.

“Isn’t there somewhere you should be, Hank?”

The lieutenant’s gaze catches on Chloe and Simon, his expression suddenly fearful, bordering on mournful. “Yeah…there is…”

“What are you doing here, then?”

He doesn’t answer. Not like he really needs to.

The monitor starts beeping, and before Markus can ask what’s wrong all their fears are put to rest. Slowly, like molasses sliding down a wooden board on a hot day, Simon’s artificial skin is inching further and further along his right side. His eye closes, his shoulder slacking, until the tips of his fingers are their familiar Caucasian tone.

Morris can’t explain it. Android bullshit. Glorious, wonderful android bullshit.

Chloe unclasps their hands, and as Morris makes her way to unhook the cable in her neck, Markus already has his lips pressed to Simon’s. There are tears streaming down both of their faces, deep blue blushes along both their cheeks.

Markus backs away just a fraction of an inch. “C-Can you hear this?” A beat passes.

Simon melts in his husband’s hands, his silent answer speaking volumes.

They start making out again, which yeah, okay, Morris gets it, but there are other people in the room. She averts her gaze, using Hank as a focus point to latch onto. He looks just as uncomfortable as she is. Hopefully, the next time they meet will be under better circumstances. She can imagine a lasting friendship with this man.

Knowing this, she does what any good friend does: push. “Go. Connor needs you.”

Hank frowns, fretful. “I don’t think…well, he’s got a lot to be mad about.”

“Then explain yourself. Give it to him straight.” She gives a small grin. “You gotta move on from all that, for both your sakes.”

Heavenly light shines down on Hank, his expression softening. He gives her a thankful smile, waving inelegantly before leaving the room.

Something inside Morris is mending, thought what she can’t quite name.

 

**July 2, 2040**

**4:41 PM EDT**

 

Markus promised Chloe she would be back in five minutes, and while Connor understands that length of time is given as more of an estimate, he can’t help but keep track of how many minutes more it’s taking her.

Nine minutes now. Not a terrible overestimate, but almost double what Markus assured.

It’s fine. Really. Connor is just lonely.

So utterly lonely. He considers looking into possible therapy options once he’s released.

 He shuffles on his bed with anticipation, licking his bottom lip and quickly forming a new nervous tick. All this energy bustling inside him with no outlet is agonizing. What he wouldn’t give for a walk around the hospital floor, or even a short trip to the room next door.

There needs to be a voice filling the room, one that isn’t his own. He wants to get caught in a conversation that fills his head with lucid static and flimsy contentment. Anything to harbor him in reality and not the various hellscapes his thoughts take him too.

So when the door hinges groan and the barrier to the outside world is opened, he is bounding with excitement. He runs a hair through his hair, finding delicate curls have formed at the frayed ends. His appearance should be the last of his worries, but like a spider designing its web Connor wants to make sure his visitor stays for as long as possible.

He expects to see Chloe. Instead, he sees Hank.

Connor’s excitement, warm and bubbly, shifts into something cold and nauseating. He doesn’t mean to grow cynical as such, but he knows that as soon as they two of them lock eyes they are doomed to finish the conversation that was put on pause at the warehouse.

He knows he’s going to lose the argument. He doesn’t have the strength to fight anymore.

And there are so many other things they have to discuss as well.

“H-How…how’re ya doing, Con?”

His partner’s voice is shredded. Connor knows his won’t sound any better.

“Good.”

“Good…”

He bites his inner cheek, choosing what he should apologize first like drawing numbers out of a hat. As he does, Hank turns and closes the door.

The grisly stitching on the back of his head makes Connor’s choice infinitely easier.

“H-Hank…your _head_.”

On impulse, Hank puts a hand to his wound, his shock making it evident he forgot it was there in the first place. “Oh, yeah. It’s not as bad as it looks. Trust me.

Connor shakes his head, the movement gradually becoming grander with every turn. “I’m sorry. I…I tried to get to you at the warehouse. I really did. And I-I’m sorry. I wasn’t fast enough-“

“Hey, hey,” Hank hurries to his side, putting a stopper on his leaking faucet of repentances. “None of that, you hear? I’m okay. Just part of the job. You know that. I’m…I’m the one who screwed up, not you. You…”

He trails off, and Connor cowers in the silence that swallows them whole. There are statistically over a million ways he could continue from where he left off, and the only solutions Connor can come up with are all negative.

Hank makes an odd noise, somewhere between a sigh and a groan. He grabs a chair by the wall and makes himself comfortable. Too comfortable. Connor’s stress levels spike.

“Look, I know you just got back…but there’s some stuff we gotta discuss now. Like right now. I’m gonna put it all out there, and you’ll know everything I need you too, but first you gotta know that I’m _proud_ of you Connor.”

Connor cocks his head. “You’re… _oh_.”

The realization hits him so suddenly, faster than any bullet that’s ever landed its mark on him. A great weight, one he’s held up for so long he had accepted it as a part of his life, is lifted.

“I’m sorry if you ever felt like you couldn’t tell me. I mean, a lot of my folks weren’t the “wokest” of the bunch, but I thought I turned out pretty open-minded. I don’t ever remember saying anything problematic, but y’know me and my dumb fucking mouth. I could’ve gotten drunk and started spouting nonsense-“

“ _Hank_.” Connor has to stop him. The sheer power of his words is sending Connor’s pump into overdrive. He has shed a fair amount of tears today, but now he’s sure he could shed even more. “You never…No, you didn’t…I…I wanted to tell you, but Chloe…i-it could’ve put her in danger if you started asking too many questions. And I would’ve told you before, but I was just… _scared_. And I don’t know _why_ but I just was. I…I can’t explain it.”

Hank nods, the corners of his mouth curling up. “You don’t need to. I get it. Well, I don’t get it. As far as I know, I’m as straight as a ruler. But, it’s never too late to figure out who you are, right?”

Connor gives a wobbly grin. “No. Never…But the shirt. How…how did you know I had it?”

The faint smile on Hank’s face vanishes. He rubs at his eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he prepares himself to answer. “When you went under…the doc that kept you alive gave me this tablet thingy. Kept track of your progress while she was synching up your new brain and all that. And…okay. Okay, I’m not…I’m not going to apologize about saving your life…but how I did it…you have every right to be angry. I expect you to be, and th-that’s okay.”

Silence encircles them again. Connor’s fingers curl around the hem of his shirt. “Hank?”

Hank looks at him, blue eyes begging for mercy. Connor swears he can peer into the man’s soul. He sees relief, gratitude, and a sorrow that threatens to diminish them all. “I could watch your memories through the tablet, and I…I saw a lot. I’m sorry. That kind of breach of your privacy…there’s no excuse for it. I wish I could tell you it was just to keep you safe…but that’s not how it started. And I won’t hide that from you. I…I really am sorry.”

Androids can stream entire lifetimes through their fingertips in one, single interface. It’s a common act, one Connor has done with Chloe once before, that symbolizes trust. Absolute trust. To take one’s soul in your very own hands and be entrusted to love them unconditionally for who they are. It’s not something to be taken lightly.

While humans are incapable of interfacing, they have their own way of showing such faith. It may take longer than a handful of seconds, but it’s possible to achieve. Heartfelt conversations, declarations of love, all of these add up in the long run to an equally meaningful bond.

Hank has taken a short cut from that path. He will never be able to jump back onto the right tracks because the damage has already been done. Connor is alive, and he is hurt. He hurts because he doesn’t know how to handle his partners confession.

Amanda has been dealt with. Chloe is safe. This is the outcome he has dreamed of for so long, one he thought would never actually come true.

But it has, and now his happy ending is crumbling at the seams.

Or it is? He has to consider Hank’s point of view, as infuriating and sickening as it makes him. Hank has lost so much in his life, more than Connor could possibly understand. He can’t imagine the kind of situation he threw his partner into, and because he refused to share his suffering Hank would suffer even more. To not know if Connor would wake up, then having to deal with Amanda, and walking into a hostage situation without any means to defend himself? He makes a mental note to chastise Hank for doing something so risky.

And at Jericho…Hank had called him _son_.

That’s the real deciding factor. It’s the lemon juice to neutralize the bitterness swirling inside Connor’s heart.

He leans forward on the bed, his elbows resting on the bends of his knees. Hank inches away from him, as if he could burn from the proximity.

“That’s not something I would’ve ever wanted to hear,” Connor admits, his tone unable to hide its edge. “Honestly, I-I don’t know how to feel about it Hank. You _saved_ me. You saved _Chloe_. But…there’s so much I wanted to tell you myself, and I don’t know the extent of what you saw…but I’m sure you know almost everything.”

Hank shrinks in on himself, head lowering to his chest.

“But,” Connor continues, a hitch to his voice, “I’m already dealing with so much….I can’t find it within me to be upset. Maybe I am angry, but more than that I’m just tired….Holding onto that anger isn’t going to get us anywhere…I forgive you Hank.”

Hanks’s eyes snap back up to his, shining with the light of a thousand suns. He’s still kicking himself on the inside, Connor knows enough about his partner to see that. At least now they may be able to live with themselves by moving on.

“Just…don’t _ever_ sort through my memories without my consent. From now on, at is. Saving me, that…that was fine.”

“I promise, son.” Hank wipes at his eyes, a few stray ones sinking into his beard. “I promise. Never again.”

“You said it again.”

Hank freezes. “I…what?”

“Son. Y-You called me son.”

“Did I?”

Connor nods.

“Oh.” Hank runs a hand along the back of his neck. “Sorry, I’m just creeping you out more. God, I need to keep my fucking mouth shut-“

Connor laughs, holding out his hands to stop Hank’s rambling. “Its okay. Really, it’s okay dad.”

And there it is.

The word takes effect immediately, sinking in on the both of them like a blanket freshly out of the dryer. It smothers them with its presence, the intensity of its warmth almost scolding. Then its effect cools, and in its place is a familiar (and unfamiliar) joy. Connor accepts its meaning fully and without any resistance.

Hank must too, because this time he doesn’t bother to hide his tears. They are grinning like idiots, their declarations of love proving to still hold true even after the betrayal that has occurred.

Connor moves forward to embrace him, but Hank pulls away.

“Wait wait wait! I got one last thing!”

He digs into his jacket pocket. Connor tries to peer over his hands but from his angle on the bed he can’t see a thing. Hank murmurs a little “Ah-ha!” under his breath and pulls out a trilogy of brightly-colored pamphlets. He holds them out to Connor, suddenly sheepish.

“Sorry it took me so long to come to my senses, kiddo.”

Connor finds he can’t read Hank’s expression, but he can easily read the bolded print across the pieces of paper in his hands.

**Non-Hodgkin lymphoma Treatment: Where to Begin**

He sucks in a breath, and releases it with ease. Tears flow freely down his face. Hank chuckles at his expense.

“You okay, Connor?”

Connor can’t speak. He puts a hand over his mouth, scrunching his eyes shut as he nods until the end of time. His body shakes with wild sobs, and they only grow stronger when Hank wraps his arms around him. He holds onto his father for dear life, now knowing he will forever be a part of it.

“I’m not going anywhere, son. I’m stayin’ right here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Legit cried after writing Hank's final line. This fic has been an emotional experience for me, and now that we're finally at the end it's really hit me how much of an impact it's had on my life. I've made so many friends through it and gotten to process many of my personal issues through the story. There's one chapter left, but not really and I'll get to that next time. So until then folks


	28. Growing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank stays. Chloe kneels. Gavin changes. Richard moves forward. Markus runs. Connor finishes something he's been meaning to get to for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it everyone
> 
> Please read the end notes, they're sappy as hell

**July 3, 2040**

**2:16 PM EDT**

 

While dealing with homicidal AIs, dogmatic billionaires, and a crazy amount of personal shit, Hank hadn’t had the luxury of proper, nutritious meals since the start of the week. Over fifty years of existence has proved that his impulse control is directly tied to his appetite, and every fast food joint he drives past beckons him with their sweet siren songs.

His stomach gurgles like a freight train, needy for anything from a gas station hot dog to a steam-boiled lobster to digest. He cruises past the Chicken Feed, and temptation nearly causing him to do an illegal U-Turn, but he stays in his lane and forces his gaze forward. If he accelerates, however, the action is completely unrelated from his edible desires.

A red light blocks his path, and Hank, rather reluctantly, decelerates until the car comes to a gentle halt. He eyes the ruby beacon with distain, and if he were not a man of the law he would blaze past every traffic stop in the city.

His gaze eventually shifts to the rearview mirror, and any and all irritation leaves him immediately. Connor curled up against Chloe, his head of unattended curls draping atop of her blonde locks. Chloe with the side of her face flushed with Connor’s pride shirt, her leg slung overtop his. Their hands locked naturally between them as they enjoy the peace and sincerity of a well-earned stasis cycle.

Hank catches his own smile in the mirror.

The light turns green, but it fails to steal Hank’s attention right away. He does eventually become aware of the change and lifts his foot off the brake, setting it back down onto the gas petal.

No more than fifteen minutes later, they’re pulling into the familiar gravel driveway of a familiar one-story house. The plot hasn’t changed the same way its inhabitants have, but Hank swears the paneling looks cleaner now than it ever has. Maybe all the damn crying he did washed out the gunk in his vision.

In the window closest to the front door, Sumo has his wet snout smooshed against the glass, his tongue lapping at them from behind the clear barrier. He is wiggling with excitement in a way no dog his age should be able to. Hank can’t wait to bust him out of his lonely prison and scratch that dog’s belly until his fingers are sore. What a good boy.

He shifts into park, tugs the keys out of the ignition, and drapes an arm over the back of his seat. Gently, he puts a hand on Connor’s knee and gives it a shake. “Hey you two.”

Connor struggles to keep his eyelids open, still under the effect of his exhaustion. Chloe rises from her slumber much faster, sitting up straighter, fully alert. She looks out the front windshield, taking in a world she had been barred from for the first time. Every joint underneath her skin slackens in awe.

“We’re home.”

They climb out of the car, bodies sluggish and steps wobbly, fumbling over themselves just to find their footing. The sun shimmers brightly above them, its rays hacking and slashing at Hank’s retinas. He puts a hand across his brows, stumbling into Connor as he does. His son gives him a light shove to balance them back out, then without a word slides his hand into Hank’s. His other hand slides into Chloe’s.

This is how the week ends: not in a body bag, but hand in hand.

Hank bumbles up the porch steps, his free hand digging into his pocket for his house key. Through the four inches of wood keeping them at bay, he can hear Sumo’s nails _click-clacking_ against the floor. His dog’s enthusiasm could put any professional tap dancer to shame.

He fiddles with the lock as his key fails to slide into it with ease. Teeth grit, he puts his back into it and forces the thin piece of metal into its hole. “Need to replace this fucking thing. Been needing too for a while. Can’t tell you how much BW40 I’ve wasted on it-”

He’s rambling and he knows it. Any amount of effort not going into opening the door is spent towards making time fly faster, or at least making it seem like it is. His lungs are a wound-up ball of rubber bands, barely constricting as he breathes. These kids have fought tooth and nail for even a semblance of security. They need to get inside. All that matters is getting this damn door open and it just won’t _budge_.

Connor pulls his hand out of his and reaches for the lock. “Can I try something?”

Hank takes a step back, leaving his key halfway jammed in the door. “Be my guest.”

He says this, but as Connor wraps his hands around the doorknob, Hank quickly comes to regret his decision. Connor’s wrist snaps one to the left, once to the right, and each time it does there’s a sickening _crack_.

The entire doorknob, lock and all, plummets onto the porch below.

“…I’ll buy you a new one.”

Hank shakes his head, unable to hold back a hearty chortle. “Well, that solves that.”

The door swings open with ease, light shining through the hole of where the handle once was. The round beam that comes out of it lands like a spotlight on Sumo’s slobbery face moments before the Saint Bernard comes barreling out of the doorway and into Connor’s arms.

The android falls right onto his back, Sumo attaching himself firmly to his chest. The dog licks Connor’s face relentlessly, and if Connor needed to breath Hank would find need for concern. Between flicks of his tongue, there are deep, tiny _boofs_ that translate to, “You’re back! You’re back! I love you! You’re back!”

Connor sticks his hands into the wrinkly bushel that is Sumo’s neck and rubs him all over. “Hey…Sumo…I….missed you…too buddy!” He pulls the dog’s face back just far enough to avoid another drenching of slobber. “I missed you _so much_.”

Chloe eases herself down onto her knees. She holds out a hesitant hand for Sumo to sniff. “Hello there Sumo.”

Sumo stares at her, wide eyes glowing with boundless energy, before he’s leaping at her. Chloe catches him, her previous worries turned to bewilderment, but with every affectionate wiggle Sumo does she warms up to him soon enough. She pats his head awkwardly, unsure of how to approach a creature of Sumo’s size and excitement.

Hank laughs. “He likes you.”

Chloe gives a wobbly smile. “H-He’s a real sweetheart… _aww_ , look at you. Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?”

Sumo. Sumo is a good boy and he looks ready to explode. He turns to Connor, then to Hank, then back to Chloe, over and over again. The attention is overwhelming. He is in canine paradise.

There’s a tremor in Hank’s belly that shakes up all his internal organs. A particularly loud gurgle irks its way out of him, one that is impossible not to hear. All eyes fall to him, even Sumo’s. He smiles sheepishly. “Let’s get inside, huh?”

 

**July 3, 2040**

**8:43 PM EDT**

 

Hank eats about double his body weight before the night rolls in, allowing himself a moment of indulgence that his scale (and Connor) will reprimand him for later. Two hot pockets, three bowls of potato chips, and the rest of their non-expired leftovers have all done their part to ease him into a food coma. His couch isn’t doing anything to stop their efforts either.

The TV remote sits precariously in his hand, and if he channel surfs just a few more times it may fall from his grip completely. Eh. Hank can sleep to the overzealous voices of an infomercial ad. He lets fate take its course as his eyelids begin to flutter close.

There’s movement to his left. Hank takes a lazy glance as Connor sinks down into the spot beside him. The lock eyes without even meaning to, sharing sleepy smiles and thankful sighs. Hank slinks an arm around Connor’s shoulders and his son doesn’t waste anytime leaning against him.

Light footsteps grow softer as they tread from tile to carpet. They both look up as Chloe enters the room, Sumo following idly behind her. She plops herself beside Connor, and Sumo across her lap. Blonde hair tickles Hank’s knuckles.

The house is silent save for the judges of the cooking show Hank has just stumbled upon. It’s a kid’s competition, and it’s obvious none of the adults have the heart to send one of the little cutie pies home. How do they do it without feeling like absolute garbage? Trick question.

 Hank’s eyes do eventually close. He wafts in and out of limbo, his brain overstimulated but his body running on empty. He catches snippets of a contestant’s plan to make a chocolate tiramisu for the dessert round before the voice suddenly morphs into Chloe’s own.

“What happens now?”

Her response doesn’t come for a while. Connor shifts around, his elbow just barely pushing against Hank’s ribs. “Some things are certain…the rest is up to us.”

Some poor kid over-churned their ice cream. Their future hangs just as much in the balance as theirs does.

“I didn’t want to stress you out by asking,” Chloe explains softly. “Just…”

“It’s scary?”

“ _Yeah_. We’ve…It feels like all…all of _that_ has been our lives for so long. Long enough to be our entire lives.”

Connor hums lowly. “I know.”

“And now I gotta get a job, earn enough to go to school, go on like nothing happened.”

“But something _did_ happen,” he reminds her. He shifts again, his backside turned towards Hank. “You don’t have to rush back into anything. Not until you’re ready. You can stay here as long as you’d like….if you’d like. And when you are ready, I have that list of colleges you asked for.”

She gives a breathless laugh, then goes quiet again. “…There’s still Elijah to deal with.”

Connor stiffens. “He can’t hurt you where he is, and he never will again.”

“If the trial goes well. Assuming there is a trial and he doesn’t buy his way out.”

“Kamski fucked over a lot of people. It’s not just us he has to answer to. He put the entire population of Jericho in danger and pissed off the entire Detroit police force. He isn’t going anywhere.”

“I hope so.”

More movement. The couch bounces under all their weight. Hank refuses to give into the temptation and look. This is their moment, not his. He’s inserted himself in far too many already.

“You sacrificed more than I could ever give to stop Amanda,” Connor whispers. His voice is thick, verging on a sob. “If I could even _try_ to repay you for what y-you did-“

Silence. A ghost of a _whoosh_ can be heard as hair is brushed out of someone’s face.

“There’s no need to keep score. What I did was insane. I can’t even imagine the kind if pain I put you through-“

“Chloe-“

“-But at the time, with all we had to lose, I wouldn’t have done anything differently. Now…now those issues are behind us. No one’s life is in danger anymore. For the first time ever, we’re finally _safe_. Whatever happens, I know you have my back. I don’t need a knight in shining armor, Connie. I just need you.”

Hank’s heart throbs, and the mix of fatigue and undying love is what finally sends him under.

 

**August 2, 2040**

**12:24 PM EDT**

                Dead husks of various plants litter the backyard, the rolling in of the new chilly season not helping Connor in his quest to clear them all out. He runs after every blackened stem that flies passed him, and if not for his infinite stamina he’s sure he would be absolutely tuckered out.

Always one to accomplish his mission, Connor does manage to throw every dead plant into a compost bag and tie it up into a loose knot. He sets the bag near the back door so not to forget it and goes about his next mission: leveling the soil back out.

It’s too late in the year to plant new vegetation, but that doesn’t mean the backyard has to look like a pig’s sty until the warm weather comes back. Connor already has a loose idea of what he wants to grow when it does. Bell peppers and tomatoes are at the top of his list, along with blackberries if he’s lucky. Cucumbers sound fairly easy to grow minus the time it takes for them to ripen. Maybe he’ll attempt to pickle a few of them and make a few Remy juniors. Or would they be Remy seniors?

The tamper makes quick work of evening the dirt, and the task is done in a matter of minutes. Connor pushes a stray curl off his face, allowing himself to admire the work he’s done. A blank slate for him to return to when the time is right.

Huh. Déjà vu.

It’s hard to pinpoint how long ago Mural Day actually was. Almost a year ago, surely. To think of all that occurred after is exhausting in retrospect. Like the prolonged ache in one’s muscles the day after an extensive workout, Connor finds it impossible to believe he survived all the trials and tribulations behind him. And there were plenty of them.

But in the midst of all the chaos, there was never a time he failed to stand up to the challenge. Sometimes he would go charging into battle, and sometimes Chloe would be brandishing his sword and shield for him as he trudged along. He owes everything he has to her. For his life, for his future, for _Hank’s_ future.

She doesn’t need him to act as the warrior he desperately needed, but he hopes he can offer her whatever she needs in return.

The back door opens, and Sumo comes bounding out with the energy of a blazing sun. He tramps right up to Connor and gives him a hearty nudge before scampering over to the freshly-laid dirt.

“Sumo, no!”

It’s too late. The “blank slate” has been marked by a canine artist. Paw prints speckle the ground in a wild display of doggy enthusiasm.

Connor frowns and there is a laugh at his expense.

“I’m not the one who’s going to give him a bath,” he informs his other half as Sumo begins rolling in the dirt. The saint Bernard loses what little white he has in his thick fur. For such an old dog, he sure does act like a puppy.

“He was so pitiful. Watching you from the window, whining like a baby.” Chloe slinks her arms around his waist, giving him a firm squeeze. “C’mon. You know I had to do it.”

“Speaking of _babies_ ,” Connor branches off, “are we all ready for tonight?”

“Uhhhhhh…how _ready_ do you want ready to be?”

“Is this code for you can’t find your dress?”

“Damn your detective skills.”

Connor smirks. He looks down at her so his amusement is known. “Is it in one of the unpacked boxes?”

“Its…probably in one of the unpacked boxes, yeah.”

“That are still unpacked because…?”

“…Shut up.”

“No wonder Hank likes you so much.”

“Shut your cute, adorable mouth! I’ll get to it eventually!” She smacks him on the arm repeatedly, her blows like the flutter of a hummingbird’s wings. “Why don’t you go bother Hank about his outfit conundrum?”

“Oh no. How bad are we talking?”

“Bright, flashy, and screaming Jimmy Buffet.”

Connor shakes his head, hoisting the tamper into his arms to carry it away. “It’s worse than I thought. I’ll talk him into something less atrocious before it’s too late.”

He abandons the tamper with the compost bag and steps back into the house. Closing the door behind him requires a certain level of dexterity, as slamming it may mean the succulents on the window seal may meet an untimely death at the hands of gravity. Shutting it too lightly risks the chance of Sumo breaking in and turning the house into a muddy warzone. It takes just the right amount of hip nudging to ensure neither catastrophe occurs.

The path to Hank’s room is a short one, and thankfully does not include a kitchen knife this time. The door is cracked open just a smidge, but Connor knocks instead of daring a peek.

“Decent.”

For the exact reason of avoiding a situation where Hank is _not_ decent.

Said lieutenant is fiddling with a tie in his bedroom mirror, his thick fingers unable to thread the silk through the knot its lower half has made. Connor wipes the dirt from his hands on his pants before offering her aid, taking the slack and threading it into the loose hole Hank has made.

His father frowns. “Could’ve done that.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

“Yeah, you’re right. As always. You damn bastard.”

Connor grins, spending a long time looking over Hank’s choice of a dress shirt. “Chloe told me there was a clothing emergency but I never imagined _this_.”

Hank takes a step back, straightening his tie before throwing his arms out into the air. “ _This_ , you are referring to, is called true fashion.”

True fashion in 2040 is the ungodly print of water mouth bass in a zig-zag formation, all colored either neon orange or blue.

“Uh huh.”

“C’mon, it matches both of your outfits!”

“Chloe’s not even wearing her dress! You have to change!”

“I think Jericho would appreciate a man wearing fish on his shirt.”

“They wouldn’t, and _won’t_. Trust me.”

Hank huffs, arms falling like lead balls to his sides. “ _Fine._ I’ll change. But I think at least North-“

“Nope. I’m choosing your attire. You’ve lost your privileges.” Connor rushes over to Hank’s closet before the older man can block his path. Every single hanging article of clothing is just as revolting (yet oddly endearing) as the shirt Hank is wearing now. This mission might take more time than he thought.

Luckily, there’s a green checked shirt at the _very back_ of the lineup that isn’t totally insulting to Connor’s eyes. He snatches it like his life depends on it and hurries back to Hank.

It’s frankly incredible how quickly Connor’s childish concerns lose their humor. When he sees how bleakly Hank is staring at himself in the mirror, fiddling with strands of his silver hair, his metaphorical heart plummets. He only catches an ounce of the fear in this father’s eyes, but the magnitude of their presence, no matter how small, is easily felt.

Connor folds up the shirt silently and leaves it on the edge of Hank’s bed. Hesitantly, he approaches the man, unsure whether to put a hand on his shoulder or let it continue to wring with the other. “Hank?”

Hank. Dad. Their lines of meaning have blurred significantly. Most days they can hold the same level of intimacy. Today is no exception.

Hank looks to Connor, expression downright fretful. His anxieties are nothing to be written off, and similar to the ones Connor once saw in his own reflection.

“Y’know…this could all go away, right?”

Connor sighs quietly, nodding his head. “I do.”

“Like, e-even if I start treatment tomorrow and go through with it..” Hank swallows, blinking wildly. “I might not make it, Con. All of this… _this_ …you, me, the hair, the parties, the… _everything_ …It’s gonna….i-it’s gonna be-“

He can’t finish. Connor won’t make him. The android makes up his mind and puts that hand on Hank’s shoulder, squeezing it tightly. “We’re not there yet. We may never get there…but it’s okay to worry. You don’t need to hide it. It’s _your_ life, Hank.”

Silver hair sways suddenly as Hank lets his head fall to his chest. “I should’ve done something sooner. You…y-you fought so hard just to _be_ here, and what the hell was _I_ doing?”

Connor gives him another squeeze. “What matters is that you _are_ here, and you’re _trying_ to be here. It means more than you’ll ever know.”

Hank raises his head slowly, pausing only once, afraid of the courage the confession has given him. When he turns back to Connor, a wobbly smile graces his lips. Connor smiles back.

No words. Just smiles.

“You can wear the fish shirt,” Connor concedes. “ _Only if_ you take the back-up shirt I left for you.”

“Aye Aye, capt’n.”

 

**August 2, 2040**

**7:05 PM EDT**

Bright lights. Crystal glasses. Flowy dresses. Sharp suits. Camera flashes. Dazzling smiles.

Gavin is captivated by it all, as a black sheep intruding into the farmer’s house.

The sheer elegance of Jericho’s party is straight out of a Downton Abbey episode. Everyone is dressed like royalty, and only partially acting like it. For every stiff handshake and rigid bow, there’s an exaggerated imitation of some newscaster whose smile is more plastic than the androids.

Fancy finger foods and thirium products sit on white tablecloths like beacons, and as much as Gavin would love to walk over and stuff his face he’s trapped in his spot like a true wallflower. That, and his cane leaves much movement to be desired. The worst of his injuries have just healed, but one day of physical therapy isn’t going to get him back on his feet in an instant.

God, but he’s so fucking hungry. Stressed and hungry. Why couldn’t the androids have a disco or a DJ or something? That’s more Gavin’s style. Dancing and screaming like it’s the end of the world, killing his anxieties with exhaustion and sweat, pretending for just a little while that life ain’t completely shit.

The top button of his shirt, despite its size and shape, is pressing into his Adam’s apple like a knife. He can’t breathe. It’s just one button. He can’t _breathe_.

He can only use one hand to unbutton it, completely unable to stand without his cane.  Not like he could pry his death grip off of the handle either. His fingertips are sweatier than a teen after football practice. They slip helplessly against his cotton collar, unable to find any friction to latch onto.

“Here, let me help.”

Gavin rips his hand away, practically shoving himself in front of Richard. He needs that button gone and he needs it gone _now_.

The task is effortless for the android, taking only seconds to complete. Gavin holds his breath all the way through it, then lets it out in a hurry once it’s over. He’s ready with a sheepish apology when Richard goes above and beyond duty and undoes the next button, and _then_ proceeds to spread his collar as far as it can until it’s no longer pressing against Gavin’s neck.

“Better?”

The heat in Gavin’s cheeks and the clamminess of his face make for quite the experience. “Y-Yeah. Thanks.”

“If you want to leave, I can call you a cab-“

“Nah. Nah, I’m…good. Just…kinda feels like I’m crashing the place. Not like I’m really supposed to be here.”

Richard moves to stand side-by-side with him, arms folded behind his back. “You were invited by Markus himself. You have every right to be here.”

“Pssshh.” Gavin tugs at the bottom of his suit jacket. “Guy’s just gotta keep up appearances. If they really knew me, the wouldn’t let me back in the building.”

An awkward silence hangs in the air. More ass kissing ensues between the media and the party’s attendees. Gavin spies North deliberately trying not to strangle a camera man who seems to be making less than open minded comments behind the safety of his colleague’s grouping. The _only_ reason for her restraint seems to be because of the child android clinging to her side. Darn good adults acting like proper role models. What a crying shame.

Richard leans in close enough to knock their shoulders together. Gavin sways, but not because of the impact. “You know that’s not true…me on the other hand-”

“Rich. Not you buddy. Remember? It was Cyberlife’s mom terminator.”

“But I _also_ aided Kamski.”

“Unknowingly.”

“Foolishly.”

“Agree to disagree. Point is, you didn’t _know_.”

Richard groans, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. Gavin finds he misses the contact, as flustered as it made him. “Well…I appreciate your support. You’ve given me more credit than I deserve.”

“I could say the same thing about you. W-When referring to me…that is…”

He senses Richard’s head about to turn and hides his blush with a super obnoxious coughing fit. His ribs sting but at least his gay panic won’t show. Hopefully.

“I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree.”

Gavin stops coughing, mostly because he’s run out of air to push from his lungs, but also to catch Richard’s grateful expression before its gone. The sight is as mesmerizing as Richard’s other expressions, but this one holds something more. Something empathetical. Something personal. An understanding only the two of them have.

It is in this moment Gavin finally accepts he has a crush on Connor’s doppelganger.

He just won’t fully process that discovery until later.

There is an uproar of applause, the kind one hears at a concert when the band finally walks onstage. The androids of Jericho hoot and holler like giddy adolescents, which makes sense given most of them are only a handful of years old. Gavin and Richard look towards the source of their amusement and can’t help but to cheer along with them.

Marveling at the décor as they enter the room is none other than everyone’s favorite Anderson trio. Well, two Andersons and a plus one, but everyone knows that won’t be the case forever. Connor’s blue jacket strikes out like a shooting star, with Chloe’s deep purple suit acting as the resplendent night sky. Their arms are wrapped around one another’s, completely inseparable, shining brightly in their own private universe.

The sheer amount of affection they give off hits Gavin squarely in his chest, his heart bursting inside it. No wonder they’re Jericho’s favorite couple, besides Markus and his husband, of course.

Not to Gavin’s surprise. But has to give it to the man: his self-confidence is something to aspire to. His sparkling smile and rosy cheeks make it evident he’s prideful of his outfit choices. He’s also happy just to be here today, with Connor, with Chloe, and Gavin’s heart swells even more.

Since when did he get so soft.

The cheering takes it sweet time to die down, but comes to a clear end when group approaches the disbanded partners. Gavin stiffens, not expecting to be faced with such a social dilemma so suddenly. Connor. Hank and Connor. Connor and Hank.

Sure, he helped save their asses. He nearly died because he was a good Samaritan and helped them out. That doesn’t mean the two should want anything to do with him. Last time Gavin checked, he was still in the running as the DPD’s Biggest Douche Bag.

The fact that Connor and Hank look even happier once they reach them puts him even more on edge.

 “You look nice, detective,” Connor is quick to compliment him. His voice is light, his expression still wholesome. Gavin is ready to bolt.

“Cool. I mean-! Thanks. Y-You look good too, man.”

He can’t break eye contact. Connor’s rich brown eyes have him caught in their tractor beam. This is the worst. Worse than getting shot. He needs a drink that’s one-hundred percent alcohol. Like…straight-up alcohol, then.

“You been holdin’ up okay, Reed?” Hank asks as he tucks his hands into his pocket. At least the lieutenant is decent enough to look as uncomfortable as he is. Talking has never been their strong suits. Maybe in another lifetime they could’ve been friends. Maybe.

“Yeah. Just a lot of internal bleeding. No big thing.”

Richard shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“But really, I’m fine. Doing great. I’ll be back on the force by the start of next year hopefully.”

“Well good.” Hank grins playfully. “You’re gonna need to hold up the team while I’m gone. It’s some big shoes to fill so no worries if you screw anything up.”

“Bold of you to assume Tina hasn’t already filled those shoes,” Gavin smirks back.

Connor gasps, sparks dancing in his eyes. “Ms. Chen was promoted?!”

Gavin flexes his best friend muscles, ready to brag. “Not even a week after you woke up. The work she did tracking down Chloe’s file and going after O’Neil got her some brownie points with the higher ups. She’s already got her desk set up. Just waiting on a full-time partner.”

 “We leave for one fucking month…” Hank is shaking his head, but his smile is anything but spiteful. “Guess I’ll have to stop by and give her some well-earned kudos. Richard, how’re you doing?”

Richard chokes on air he’s not breathing, his plan of turning into an unnoticeable statue thwarted. He runs his hands over his suit, straightening out wrinkles that don’t exist. His LED is as yellow as a fresh spring daisy.

“I’m good. D-Doing good, uh, Hank. Thank you for asking. H-How are you?”

“Pretty damn good, thanks for asking. You hangin’ in okay? Haven’t really check in on ya as much as I would’ve liked.”

“Oh, no-no worries. I’m…hanging in there. I quit my job as a private investigator. Admittedly, it hasn’t been easy finding another job to slip into…but that chapter of my life was overdue for a closing.”

There’s something in Connor’s eyes that knocks Gavin’s breath away, and that something seems to only be understood by Richard. The two RK models haven’t interacted much since the Jericho Incident, but Gavin does remember Richard coming to visit him in the hospital after he worked up the nerve to introduce himself to Connor. The result had been, as Richard described it, “Bizarre and unexpectedly emotional.” Guess it’s easy to connect to someone who’s also had their mind taken over by a Zen program.

 “Well, you heard what Detective Reed said. If you’re willing to fill a needed position at the DPD, we’d be more than lucky to have you.”

Richard’s first instinct seems to be bursting into nervous laughter. “Y-You’re too kind. That’s…really, how sweet of you to…Wait, are you serious?”

“With your set of programs, you’d already be qualified for a position as a detective,” Connor informs him. “And we’re frankly short on staff since-“

“I’m forcing this maniac to take a vacation,” Chloe butts in.

“A well-earned and _grateful_ vacation,” Connor adds, elbowing her good-humoredly. “But while we need our rest, the city of Detroit is always active. You’re exactly who they need right now.”

Gavin can hear the gears inside Richard’s whirring head like an old PC. His LED is spinning faster than a tornado, but never sways from its blue color.

“I’ll…I’ll have to think about it.”

He’s going to say yes.

Chloe ducks her head around their little posse, hair whipping against Gavin’s sleeve. “Babe, I’ll be right back.”

Connor untangles their arms. “Everything okay?”

“Oh yeah. Just gonna go talk to Simon and…not do anything suspicious. Don’tfollowme’kaythanksloveyou.”

She’s gone in a flash, flats slapping against the floor as she books it in the blonde’s direction. Three men trained for the law enforcement industry watch as the two engage in a hushed conversation, hold out their hands, and tuck them back suspiciously at their sides.

“…did we just witness a drug deal?” Richard whispers.

Hank shrugs, slowly moseying away from them. “We’re off duty. Hors d’oeurves first, investigate later. Anybody wanna follow?”

Richard looks to Gavin. “Thirsty?”

Gavin swallows. Yep, his throat’s just like sandpaper. Thanks anxiety. “As hell.”

“I’ll be right back then,” he says with a smile that goes right to Gavin’s knees. Humans have cracked the tough nut that is artificial intelligence, but they will never be able to explain how such a small gesture can make Gavin blossom with such unbridled affection. He’s a bubbling pot of warm, fuzzy feelings, and the temperature is only rising.

God, how can Connor live like this all the time?

No, scratch that. Connor gets to live like this _all_ the time. Lucky bastard.

No, scratch _that_. Scratch fucking _everything_. Connor gets to live _period_ , and tonight is a reminder of that. Well, partially, but _still_. Here stands Cyberlife’s favorite Backstreet Boy assassin, not even half a foot away from where Gavin is standing, looking absolutely blissed. To think of all the dominoes that had to fall just to keep this kid alive. And Gavin’s isn’t emotional or anything but fuck he was one of those dominoes and so was Hank and Richard and Tina and Chloe and-

Oh wow. The room is spinning. And blurry. He really needs that drink now.

“Detective Reed?” Connor inches closer, but keeps his distance. “It’s alright. Do you want to get some air?”

His vision blurs at the corner, but a few blinks later it’s gone. “Nah. I’m peachy. I’m…Shit, I h-haven’t had one of these since…”

 _High school,_ he wants to say, but his tongue has swelled to the size of a grapefruit. A light hand finds itself perched on his shoulder.

“I’m not one for parties either. There’s a clearing off near the entrance. I’ll have Richard bring a chair with him when he comes back, okay?”

Gavin swipes the sweat dripping down into his eyes, then the drizzle that follows afterwards. “Yeah…yeah ok. Lead the way, tin-Con. Connor.”

It’s slow going. Gavin’s stitched-up organs clench even harder from the stress, and his torso has the flexibility as a piece of jerky. Humiliation attacks him in droves of goosebumps, but it doesn’t match the disgust he feels when he has to lean on Connor for support.

“This doesn’t mean anything…” His pause is premature, and defensively Connor seems to tense up. “…but I’m sorry.”

Connor stalls, but soon matches Gavin’s pace again. “There’s no shame in needing help, Detective.”

“No, about…a-about the evidence locker, and the shitty c-comments, and just all of that, alright? I’m really fucking sorry. And s-sorry won’t make it better, but I am. And I’m…I’m glad you’re alive and I didn’t kill you and- _Fuck_ , I almost…shit man…”

They aren’t the only party stragglers near the open doorway, but as Connor promised there is plenty of room for Gavin to collect himself. The android props Gavin up with his back to the wall, then proceeds to stand next to him. The lack of eye contact grants just as much mercy as it does retribution.

“You did almost kill me,” Connor says evenly, “Though I was trespassing. And _technically_ , you took a bullet for me. I’d say we’re even.”

A gaping wound worse than the one caused by the bullet rips its way through Gavin’s conscience. “Fuck, no, Connor that’s not…t-that’s not it works.”

“Sure it is,” and damn Gavin’s soul because he can hear Connor smiling. “But it’s not only that. I was dying, Gavin. And frankly, I…I _should_ be dead. But even if that had been the case…you stuck by Hank’s side all the way. Taking on overtime, partnering up with Richard…it means more to me than you’ll ever know. So I think it all works out just fine.”

There is no crueler act of justice, and no finer act of gratitude, than that of forgiveness. And damn it all to hell, Gavin can’t help but cry.

The audacity of this android- _this fucking android_ -to pardon Gavin of any guilt from his past actions is beyond him. It’s not in his capacity to let go of so much baggage as easily as Connor does. That’s all Gavin knows; to hold on to every scrap of emotional and let it manifest into an entity darker than the demons he hides from.

Here comes Connor with the light to vanquish that darkness, to quell his demons, but most importantly to prove to Gavin he has the capacity to change, and he _has_.

He’s a blubbering mess, his tuxedo sleeve slick with the snot he keeps trying to wipe it away. Something akin to relief pushes him to give in and weep fully, but he spies Richard making his way back to them and quickly wills the urge down. Cut down his pride may be, but no one ever feels comfortable to try in front of their newly-realized crush, especially on day one.

“G-Go find your girlfriend and be happy, you idiot,” Gavin whimpers.

Connor laughs. “Take deep breaths. Drink your beverage slowly.” Then he walks away to do just that.

 

**August 2, 2040**

**7:29 PM EDT**

 

Tastefully grandiose is how Carl would have described this party. Party slash press conference slash a multitude of things. A well-composed mess, generated by a lack of free time to hold separate events and the ability to multi-task (multi-host?).

Keeping the press in line is by far the most challenging part of the evening. Given the current political climate, it was going to be impossible to keep their presence at a minimum. _Vultures_ , Carl had called them. _Always circling, ready to pounce at your weakest moment_.

However, Markus is, as Morris refers to it, “riding a high,” and the press can’t affect him because he’s “chasing his bliss.” North would probably know what that all means.

It’s true he is enjoying himself for a change. Publicity galas open to the public media tend to me nothing but a challenge to slog through, but as he shakes hands with each and every newscaster and politicians, he finds his smile never wavers.

The time comes to put himself on display and recognize the many important events that brought them all here. He walks onto the stage, offering himself as a piece of meat to every tabloid out there, and grabs the microphone waiting for him.

“You’re attention-You’re attention please! Thank you. Thank you all for attending tonight.”

All eyes are on him, hungry, inquisitive, and proud. Markus scans the crowd for the same person he always does at these events. Simon is already staring at him when he finds him. The blonde gives him a playful wink.

Nothing like a little flirtatious courage to get the ball rolling.

“It was here, one month ago today…that tragedy struck our Jericho family. And on that same day, we became stronger than anyone could have imagined. Cyberlife lost its firmest grip on our people. The AI program they failed to disclose of was activated, but quickly subdued all in part to the quick thinking of the brave officers of the Detroit Police Department and our own Jericho residents. I would like to take this time to honor the very people I have to thank for saving so many lives…and for making sure my husband is here with us today.”

He looks to Simon again. No wink this time, just glossy stares.

“If our heroes wouldn’t mind, I’d like to invite you all on stage as I call your names. One of them could not make it tonight, but our deepest gratitude goes out to Detective Tina Chen and we wish her a safe night on the job. Now I would like to call upon Doctor Karen Morris, Detective Gavin Reed, Lieutenant Hank Anderson, and Chloe.”

Thunderous applause follows shortly after those famous names are read aloud. One by one, the four peel themselves away from the crowd. Reed has the most trouble making his way up, but once Morris comes stumbling in late she offers the detective her arm and he greatly accepts. He holds onto her rather tightly, and Markus immediately regrets fraying the man’s nerves further.

They line themselves up to Markus’ left like little ducklings who have just learned to waddle. The element is clearly not one they are used to, with the exception of Chloe, who’s entire life was a prison of glitz and glamour. However, her loose posture and wavy hair gives off the impression she has broken free of her shackles. No, she has obliterated them.

The applause grows and grows to the point Markus can feel its tremors underneath his feet. Its contagion spreads to every android and human in the form of hand claps, whistling, and praises. Markus gladly falls under its effect and claps wildly with his people.

Their reactions are varied, but carry the general same consensus. Gavin is frozen, but the flicker of a smile on his face makes it clear its from something pure. Morris is a deer caught in headlights, the admiration overwhelming but not unwelcome like it used to be. Hank keeps tucking the same piece of hair behind his ear sheepishly, but that may just be because Connor is chanting his name (along with Chloe’s) particularly loudly.

Chloe is clapping with the crowd, eyes lingering on Hank. The older man catches her staring and chuckles warmly. Soon the exchange spirals into a clapping contest, one Markus isn’t sure the winner of.

“There are certain reminders of our struggles we will never be rid of,” Markus continues once the crowd calms down. “LEDs can be removed, public spaces segregated, and harmful laws abolished…but some things you can never be rid of. Those will go unspoken of tonight, but all who have experienced great pain know them by heart. But what these brave people proved to the world on July 2, 2040 is that we can overcome even the most damaging of reminders, endure the hardest sting of any slap to the face, and rise from our own ashes into someone remarkable. Healing begins one step at a time, and the first step is always the hardest. But a ledge is easier to climb when you have a hand to grab onto.”

Without fully intending to, Markus locks eyes with Connor. The two look dumbfounded at one another before breaking into the widest of grins. How true those words have echoed throughout their lives.

“But we’re gathered here tonight not just to commemorate our friends, but to celebrate a true milestone…and a relief to many androids out there…that androids are now legally recognized as caregivers of human children!”

If the response to his last announcement are of any comparison, this time there is an absolute explosion of noise. Androids who have waited years for this one law, for the short string of words Markus has woven, cry out in relief unparalleled to any other. Couples embrace left and right, dry eyes are quickly soiled, and the future for their people grows all the brighter.

Markus searches for Simon once again, the joy pumping through him spurring his desperation. He wants to jump off the stage and go barreling into his arms. He wants to pick up his husband and spin him around in his arms until they achieve something close to dizziness. He wants to smooch Simon’s metaphorical brains out, even in front of all these watchful cameras. He wants what everyone else now has but they may never find the time for. But they’ll find time. Somehow, someday.

Until then, they have Morris.

It’s impossible to remember what he says next, not when he’s so focused on the dimples on Simon’s cheeks and their blueberry glow, but somewhere along the way everyone starts walking off stage and away Markus goes. To the future. Their future.

 

**August 2, 2040**

**11:01 PM EDT**

 

In Connor’s relatively short life, the two faces that have terrified him the most have been Kamski and Amanda’s. Now, as he stares back at his own reflection, he thinks they’ve met their match.

There his LED goes. Spinning around and around around. Yellow, yellow, yellow-

“Connie?”

Blue.

Connor pushes himself off the bathroom sink and smiles. Chloe is standing in the open doorway, arms crossed and clad in sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. _Chicken Feed_ is printed across her chest in bold lettering, Jimmy having recently decided to sell merch along with his burgers (and better his relationship with health inspection too).

“What’cha doing, babe?”

Connor lifts up the pair of scissors in his hands. “Well, I, uh…was a little inspired by what Markus said tonight.”

Chloe stands upright, mouth gaping. “Is it time?”

“Yes, it’s…finally time.”

He nods and finds it impossible to stop. Chloe closes the distance between them, hands reaching up to cup the sides of his face. He melts under her touch and stays that was even as her fingertips trace over his LED.

“Do you need any help?”

Connor caresses her own face with his free hand. “No, this is…something I need to do on my own.”

She smiles. “I know.”

They pull away from each other, almost in slow motion. Chloe takes two steps back and Connor one step closer to the mirror. He turns back to himself, pupils dilated and LED crimson. A little bit of pressure, a small push in, and one twist later it’ll all be over with. Three simple actions. Just three.

His hands are trembling as he brings the scissors up to his temple, the sharp points shining under the 40-watt lightbulb above him. Quick and painless. Quick and painless. He shouldn’t have to keep reminding himself that.

Maybe he’s not ready. How could he be if he’s hesitating this much? He’s been granted all the time in the world to prepare himself; could it really have not been enough?

Behind his own reflection stands Chloe, silently waiting and reminding him of how far he’s come since he last tried this. The man keeping him from digging these blades into his skin hasn’t vanished, but he’s not the same as he once was. No longer frightened. No longer alone.

Connor takes a deep breath and pushes the scissors in.

Push, twist, tug. A circular disk falls into the sink basin.

The sigh he releases is one that has been building for years and years.

Chloe has him in an embrace faster than he can say his own name. He returns her affection tenfold, their bodies rocking side to side in a tearful waltz.

“I’m so _proud_ of you,” she whispers.

“I never could’ve done it without you,” he whispers back.

The man he sees in the mirror now is entirely Connor, no glowing scars left to prove otherwise. He reaches into the sink and with two fingers plucks out his LED. Together, they watch as the light slowly fades away. Blue, blue, gone.

“What are you gonna do with it?” Chloe asks.

Connor clutches his past in the palm of his hand. “I have an idea.”

 

**August 2, 2040**

**11:15 PM EDT**

 

The spade cuts through the dry, even soil like a knife through butter, and not soon after Connor starts digging does he have a perfectly-sized hole for planting. He pushes the extra dirt aside, pulls his LED out of his pocket, and holds it over the tiny abyss.

“Drumroll please!”

Hearing their cue, Chloe and Hank pat their thighs and belly (respectively), holding a single-syllable chant and growing louder. Just when they a volume the neighbors may complain about, Connor lets go of the LED and watches it fall. There is no sound of the impact, and no evidence of what he’s put behind him as he covers the hole back up and levels the soil.

 Hank makes expert gunshot sounds with his mouth, imitating them with his index fingers and thumbs. “Atta boy, Connor!” Wagging sleepily at his feet is Sumo, the old dog not one to miss out on any excitement even if it’s passed his doggy bed time.

Connor rises to his feet giggling, lighter than he’s ever felt before. “Now you can go back to sleeping on the couch, dad.”

“Hell no.” Hank falls into the nearest patio chair and reaches for his unopened can of soda. “Sky’s too pretty to go to bed just yet. Anybody up for a little stargazing?”

Half an hour is spent correcting Hank on the constellations he _thinks_ he’s mapping out correctly. He gets the Dippers down and that’s about it. After that, the four spend the rest of the night enjoying the rare peace and quiet Detroit has to offer them.

Chloe threads her hand through Connor’s as they lean against each other on the porch steps. An hour or so of silence is broken by her soft voice. “How does it feel, Connie?”

Connor hums. “Pretty damn good.”

She chuckles, squeezing his hand. “Yeah…it sure does.”

There’s a cluster of stars in the sky that remind Connor of a starfish. He thinks he’d like to go to the beach one day, Chloe included of course. Chloe will always be included in his adventures.

A life without Chloe now seems unfathomable. He hopes it will always stay that way.

Chloe pulls her hand away, pushing herself up slowly to her feet. She looks down at him, a crease between her brow. “Hey, so…I-I know we’ve already kinda promised ourselves to each other given, well, just about everything.”

And suddenly, she’s kneeling. Magically in her hand appears a silver wedding band.

“But if you’d let me slide this ring on your finger, that’d be great.”

The stars are aligning. No longer are they scattered about the sky at random. They form an eloquently response to her life-changing question.

“Oh Chloe, _yes_.”

Never has she seen her smile so wide before. She rushes to put the ring on his finger, almost dropping it in the process. Once it’s on, they’re holding each other in their arms, laughing, weeping, happier than can be described.

Hank watches them slack jawed, not even aware he’s spilling the rest of his bubbly beverage onto the porch below.

“So it _wasn’t_ a drug deal.”

 

**July 7, 2041**

**2:43 PM EDT**

 

Bright turquoise stands out against its backdrop of deep, rich brown, with hints of lavender and charcoal for a shaded effect. The more of it is placed onto the drywall canvas, the more room it appears to take up, even if its total width is a handful of inches.

Connor narrows his gaze, biting his bottom lip as he makes one final slow stroke with his paintbrush. He reaches the end of the circle he started and pulls away. An LED as big as his fist sits about half a foot from the floor, and as he backs away it grows smaller and smaller.

From a distance, the thin roots trailing from the circular beacon grow and grow until they poke above the painted earth and transform into beautiful stalks of lilacs. Pink, Magenta, Purple, Blue, and others all blend together into the bushel of fruits and vegetables also sprouting from the earth. Together, they make up an abundant garden, one Connor just so happens to have in his own backyard.

Two years later and the mural is finally finished.

Suddenly, a pair of chubby hands are splatted against the mural as high as they can reach. Orange handprints are left behind as Connor picks the toddler off the floor and hoists her into his arms.

“Ah-ah-ah! That’s not your mural!”

Remy doesn’t understand half the words her father is saying, only that he’s cross with her. She belly laughs, exposing her two (and only) front teeth for all of Jericho to see. Connor sneers mischievously, ruffling the soft dark curls on top of her head.

“Were you planning on painting that over, little pickle?”

“Ahh baba dah ba!”

“So I thought,” Connor says with a shake of his head. Only sixteen months old and already committing vandalism. What is he going to do with her?

A cloth finds it way wrapped around Remy’s sticky fingers, Chloe having come to Connor’s rescue. “Thought we might need this. We have a little Markus in the making.”

Remy squirms, whining as her mother ruins her chances of creating another mess. Once she’s finished, Chloe presses a kiss to her squishy cheek. Then another. And another.

She looks to the mural, beaming. “Connie, it’s…it’s amazing.”

Connor rubs the back of his neck, unknowingly dotting his skin with small specks of blue. “Well, _I’m_ no Markus, but yeah…I think it turned out alright.”

Halted footsteps echo behind them. Connor passes Remy over to Chloe and quickly makes his way to Hank’s side. His father sees him going in to help and is brushed off.

“I’m fine, Con. Let me stretch my legs on my own terms.”

“Just take it easy,” Connor reminds him. “I’m right here if you need me.”

“I know you are, son.” They lock eyes, and Hank breaks into a smile.

The past year has not been kind to Lieutenant Hank Anderson. It’s been a rocky road with chemotherapy, and all of the hair atop his head has since abandoned him. A significant amount of his bodyweight has diminished, and the doctors say he still has a long ways to go before he kicks his cancer to the curb.

But in that same year, Hank watched his son be married to the most wonderful woman in the world. He helped the newly weds file for adoption, and months later drove with them to bring Remy home.

He’s expected to make a full recovery, though the toll his illness has taken can never be completely undone. He may never be able to return to the force, but that won’t be known for sure until his blood is clean of all its sickly white cells.

What matters until then is sticking by one another. That’s all that has ever mattered.

Hank manages to walk all the way over to the mural without Connor’s support. He is not above, however, leaning against his son when they make it there. His eyes gloss over as he takes in the final result.

“Holy shit….you could give Markus a run for his money, kid.”

They all burst into laughter at the expense of their artistic friend. Somewhere on the upper floors of Jericho, that same friend is preparing a small luncheon for their human family members, and Markus and Simon’s own tiny tot. Remy has started chewing on her fingers, which means its time to go up and join them.

“Hungry pumpkin?” Hank chuckles, tickling Remy’s tummy. She belly laughs again, smacking her fatty palms against his hand in retaliation. “It’s time for goldfish.”

Connor takes one last look at his mural before they walk away. The elevator ride they take now is more crowded than it used to be, especially when Morris comes to visit from her new android facility. It’s been a while since the doctor has been able to join them; inventing a way to transfer child android subconsciousness into new, older models hasn’t been easy, but if anyone can find a way it’s her.

Sometimes Richard and Tina come by during their lunch break, the partners occasionally dragging Gavin in with them when they can (though he hardly needs much convincing). Everyone’s favorite detective is back on the job and better than ever, even three months into a relationship with a certain RK900. He’s even become a bit of a celebrity around Jericho for teaching all the child androids how to balance a pole (in this case his cane) on the tips of their fingers. They had been very impressed.

Connor has since returned to the force himself, working significantly less hours with Hank undergoing treatment and Remy being…well, a baby. With Chloe in school to become a teacher, too, he’s had to cut back even heavier on shifts, to the dismay of his paycheck.

Leave it to Fowler and the rest of the bullpen to pitch in when money is tight. Connor has no idea how he’ll ever be able to repay them for making sure his child goes to bed full every night.

Every day, Connor thinks of how lucky he is to be alive.

“Ready to go, Connor?”

Connor looks to Hank and matches his smile. “Lead the way, dad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seven months ago, I opened a word doc and titled it "father android bonding time," and that title wouldn't fit his fic until literally the last chapter. And look where we are know.
> 
> This is gonna be like the Oscars but I get to say all my thank yous and not forget about my parents. Thank you for birthing me
> 
> First off, a special than you to AlleyCatAngst, a fantastic writer and a wonderful friend :) You've helped me so much with the end of this fic and encouraged me when my creativity was lacking. I can't wait to delve into our future writing escapades together and I'm so glad I met you!
> 
> Second off, another special thank you to the Detroit" New ERA server for letting me have my own channel and for being a part of your wholesome community! Thank you Aunty Estoria for inviting me to the server and Fantismalspider for being an awesome admin! The opportunities you give to fan fic writers and fans is amazing and thank you so much for giving us all a space to hang out and collaborate!
> 
> Thank you Jaye and Zalein for your thoughtful discord and ao3 conversations! And thank you Atlas, Blaze, Carsen, Vulcan, Dax, Seb, and everyone else in our dbh server. You all have made my life so much better just being in it and like Connor with Chloe, I can't imagine it now without you all in it <3 It's been a pleasure to meet you all through this trash game
> 
> Thank you everyone who gave me such helpful advice for writing Connor as an asexual character, Hearing how much ace representation meant to you all warmed my heart an caused me to shed quite a few tears reading your comments. You all are beautiful people and deserve all the platonic love in the world <3
> 
> Thank you to the Chlonnor discord I'm in too for helping to fuel me with their soft energy, which I then channeled into this fic. You all give this rare pair so much life and I applaud you
> 
> Thank you David Cage for making a good game with shitty writing which I could then write a long ass fic for that became sort of like a therapy piece for me. I delved into a lot of things that mirror issues in my own life and because of it, I think I've come out of this fic happier than I went in. Writing is a powerful tool for interpreting your emotions. It doesn't matter how "good" you are at it, as long as you get the right words down that affect you.
> 
> And finally, THANK ALL YOU LOVELY READERS FOR EVERYTHING! Every comment, every kudo, every bookmark means the absolute world to me. I've never tackled a project this big and this popular before, and having the support you all gave me made this finale possible to accomplish. You all are some good folks. Now go share the love you did for this fic on other well-deserving writers too.
> 
> I think after devoting this much time to fan fic writing that it's finally time that I love on to finally tackling that book I've been meaning to write. And not just saying that at the end of a fic and then making another one. AND not writing another 21,000+ word draft of my novel and abandon it (or using first person EVER again). I'll still be lurking around the dbh tags (any maybe adding some appendix chapters later on? depends on if i think the story needs to be expanded in any way), but if you ever read something by me again, i'm hoping its paper bound.
> 
> Thank you. I don't know how else to say it. Thank you all so, so much <3


	29. Special: Chloe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank lobbies. Connor cleans. Chloe opens up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!!!
> 
> Okay, so this was originally meant to be an anniversary chapter marking one month since this fic ended, but then life got in the way. Also, I started another fic which was Not a good idea, but I've had fun with it so far (let's just hope I can actually finish it).
> 
> I can't promise any more specials like this, but I'm still toying with the idea of other bonus chapters to continue/expand on parts of the story that deserve to be dived into more. Such as my girl Chloe here. I hope you all enjoy and I've missed you all very much!!!!!

**March 9, 2042**

**8:03 AM EDT**

 

It’s an oddly beautiful day in Detroit. The sun is shining, birds are singing, and Hank feels like crap.

He leans out of bed. Every muscle in his body seizes up and burns as a result. The meat clinging to his bones weighs him down like an anchor, despite the minisual amount their is. His eyelids are still heavy, even after the solid nine hours of sleep he managed to grab.

Ah, the joys of a middle-aged cancer patient.

The walk to the living room feels like treading through a lake of tar. Hank’s limbs just refuse to cooperate with him, either too stiff to bend or too wobbly to put his weight on. He prides himself on taking his time and only swaying once. When he first started treatment, he overestimated his motor skills and went face-first into the bathroom wall. Connor’s stress levels have convinced him to take it easier since then.

He makes it to the living room without any incidents. His reward by all 3-foot-nothing of his granddaughter waddling excitedly to his side.

“Hankpa! Hankpa! Up! Up!”

Hankpa: a blending of Hank and grandpa. Remy had been teaching herself now to speak by listening to her parents, and since her dad still mostly referred to Hank as Hank, the name stuck. Connor and Chloe have recently gotten on the ball of teaching Remy themselves, but forcing the word grandpa on her has only fused the two.

Hank leans down as far as his spine will allow, chuckling to mask the pain. “You’re too giddy to pick up! Look at you wigglin’ around.”

Remy only wiggles more. There’s too much energy in her tiny body to contain. The dark curls on top of her head bob around like tiny springs. She is the embodiment of happiness and a reminder to Hank of the good that can come from this cruel, cruel world.

He finds that even after all the hard lessons he’s learned, he still needs those reminders.

Gentle hands lift Remy up from her armpits, but not Hank’s own. Chloe shifts her child so that Remy’s sitting comfortably on her hip, still squirming like a worm on top of wet pavement.

“Someone decided to give her Cinnamon Toast Crunch for breakfast instead of Cheerios. She’s on a bit of a sugar high.” Chloe may wear the common face of a worn mother, but her light tone alludes to the lack of a disciplinary warning Connor will be getting. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Eh, same ol’, same ol’.” Hank reaches out and ruffles Remy’s hair. The toddler cackles wildly. “You two look like you’re heading out. It’s not Con’s lunch break already, is it?”

Chloe shakes her head. “Grocery day. We were just about to leave, but I can whip you up something to eat if you want?”

Hank quickly waves her off. “Don’t go through the trouble. I’m not hungry anyways.”

Chloe rolls her eyes with a grin. “Like it’s a burden to make my father-in-law scrambled eggs. But you _will_ eat something after we leave, right?”

“I will. _Unless_ …”

She cocks an eyebrow. “ _Unless?_ ”

“I eat something at the Chicken Feed.”

“ _Hank_.”

“ _Chloe_.”

“What would Connor say?”

“Why do you think I’m asking you?”

Chloe gives him a sly smile. “I’m more stubborn than I look.”

“True. But c’mon. _C’mon_. Do we really need to play this game?”

Chloe purses her lips. It’s clear she’s already made up her mind, but she’s not done playing in this space quite yet.

“Hmmmmmm...I _guess_ you can come. But if you feel anything worse than a slight discomfort, I’m bringing you right back home.”

 

Victory tastes sweet, and like the burger Hank consumes later that day. Just what the doctor didn’t order.

He’s sitting across from Chloe now, Remy plopped sluggly in her lap. The toddler munches like a crazed animal on her fries. Grease is smeared across her chubby cheeks.

There’s something so captivating about the mundane. It took Hank a couple of trips to hell to realize this, but he would never trade his scars if it meant missing what he sees now. The tender and care put into each of Chloe’s actions, how she breaks up the fries into bite-sized pieces and porus her daughter her own little pile of ketchup on a napkin. The aimless conversation Gary engages in with another customer. The smell of grilled meat that wafts through the air. The slow roll of cars that goes on by the food truck stand.

His love this city. He loves _his_ city. _His_ Detroit.

Chloe stares off into space. She comes back to with a laugh. “Connor says Gavin hasn’t taken his eyes off Richard all day.”

Hank tries not to choke on his burger as he laughs too. “F’gur’s. L’st time he had’ah crush on s’mone, he ‘z a walkin’ dis’ahst’r.”

“He’s completely smitten,” Chloe muses. There’s a dreamy look to her eyes, as bright as the blush across her face. “It’s sweet. Reminds me of Connie.”

Hank swallows down his bite. “Was he just as much of a love-stricken puppy?”

“Oh he was _horrible_. He could barely talk to me right before Markus’ wedding. I felt bad for him...but honestly, I was no better.”

A sappy sort of warmth shoots through Hank’s heart. “Yeah. Love will do that to ya.”

Chloe nudges some more fries Remy’s way, which the toddler instantly begins to devour. “I never really had anyone to talk to about Connor. Didn’t really...have any friends after the revolution. Just kinda kept to myself...It’s nice, having someone to talk to now. A _lot_ of people, actually. I mean, Connor said he was friends with most of the people at Jericho, but I never imagined-”

The blush drains from her face, eyes wide and hardening. She grips Remy firmly, as if to use her daughter as a shield. Remy is completely oblivious (too caught in fry heaven at the moment) but Hank latches on immediately. He follows Chloe’s gaze, past Gary, past the chicken Feed, and sees her.

Another Chloe.

Well, another RT600. Or ST600. But for the past twenty years or so, the models have been branded by the same name. And she fits the Chloe stereotype _perfectly_. Long hair in a side ponytail, a dress that barely covers her knees, makeup as full and expressive as a barbie doll.

Hank looks back to his Chloe-messy hair, baggy clothes, face void of all cosmetics-and easily senses her distress.

“Do you know her?”

That sounds racist. Just because they’re the same model doesn’t mean they know each other. There are countless PL600s across Detroit and Simon has only mentioned a handful he knows personally.

But the question doesn’t hit the insensitive mark Hank was afraid of. Chloe nods heavily, a quiver to her lip.

“Yeah...y-yeah, I do.”

He looks again. The RT600 seems to be caught in the same trance as her. There is history in those stares, in the way the other Chloe inches forward but hesitates to cross the street.

“Do you wanna go talk to her?”

Chloe blinks, freed from her spell. “I-no. Groceries. We need groceries, and I gotta take you home.”

She’s trembling, to the point even Remy has taken notice. The kid whines pitifully, and also because the last of her fries are out of her reach.

“ _Chloe_.”

“ _Hank_.”

“Groceries can wait. I’ll call a cab. Maybe I should take Remy with me?”

Chloe looks down at her child. She deflates with a sigh. “I won’t be long.”

“There doesn’t need to be a time limit. Take as long as you need.”

Chloe crumples as Hank takes the weight of the world off her shoulders. She passes Remy off to him and wastes no time walking over to her doppleganger.

As Hank buckles Remy into her stroller, he looks back briefly to see how the reunion is going. He holds his breath as the RT600 throws her arms around Chloe, whose arms hover over her back.

He doesn’t exhale until Chloe returns the embrace.

 

**March 9, 2042**

**9:23 AM EDT**

 

Chloe’s first thought upon entering Leslie’s apartment is how much nicer it is than hers.

Not that Chloe should even care about Leslie’s apartment, given she moved out of hers ages ago. Or that she should care about Leslie’s oak furnatings, plush foot rugs, and sparkly China cabinet. She’s totally not paying attention to the chartreuse color scheme and wishing she had decorated her own place the same way.

No, Chloe is a happy, successful adult in her own right. She’s married to the most wonderful man in the world, is proud mother, and two months away from getting her teaching degree. The house she lives in is well-kept and plenty spacious for the four people (and Saint bernard) that inhabit it.

She doesn’t give a damn about Leslie’s lifestyle. Why would she?

“I always wanted to get back in touch,” Leslie admits as she slips off her sparkly flats. There are more sequins on her heels can Chloe can scan for. “I tried reaching out to the others, but some of them...didn’t want to talk.”

If Leslie had found her years ago, Chloe would have been the same. “Don’t blame them for it. They need more time.”

Leslie looks away mournfully. “I know...But now, you’re...you’re _here_.”

She’s beaming, changing emotions like the flip of a switch. Chloe seems to be the only one experiencing the whiplash. “I-It’s been a while, hasn’t it? You seem well.”

Leslie rocks steadily on the balls of her feet. She could give Remy a run for her money with all the pent-up energy she has. Her floral dress flaps delicately against her kneecaps. “Thank you. It’s been...a journey getting here, but I’m grateful for where I am. Despite everything.”

Chloe puts on a smile. “Same here. So...Leslie, huh?”

She blushes. “Yes, I thought it sounded cute.”

The word gives Chloe something akin nausea. Still, she nods. “It is.”

Leslie motions for Chloe to follow her deeper into the apartment. She eases herself gracefully on a white loveseat Chloe wouldn’t let her child be in a five mile radius of with how pristine it looks. “Do you want to sit? Or if you have to go, I understand. It looked like you already had plans for the day-”

“Oh, no! No, don’t worry about it.” Chloe plops down beside her. “I’m not just gonna leave after getting here. And you said you wanted to catch up, so...here I am.”

Leslie beams. “Well, there’s a lot to catch up on. I’ll be honest, I already know a little bit about you.”

Of course. The incident at New Jericho. The whole world knows about Amanda’s takeover by this point, not to mention Kamski’s extensive trail and even longer sentencing period. “I hope you don’t mind, but if you wanna talk about what happened at Jericho, can we maybe...not?”

Leslie gasps silently. “Of course. I completely understand. I can’t imagine how hard all that must've been for you.”

Chloe brushes a piece of hair out of her face. “Yeah, well, it’s over now. Miraculously. So what do you know about me? Hopefully none of it came from a tabloid.”

A faint blueberry dusting covers Leslie’s cheeks. “It’s a funny story, actually. I already blabbed about my work as a therapist on the way over, but, um...I didn’t mention who any of my patients are.”

“Isn’t that, like, something you’re not supposed to do?”

Leslie giggles, her voice the same sugary consistency as syrup. “I can’t disclose personal information, but names are perfectly legal. For instance, does a certain Karen Morris ring any bells?”

The name rings louder than any cathedral bell ever could. A certain woman with dark hair and darker eye bags comes instantly to mind. Chloe vaguely remembers Simon telling her Markus had “gently persuaded” the doctor to go to therapy after the New Jericho incident. In reality, the sessions had been a long time coming. Treatment had been calling Morris’ name far before Richard put a gun to her head. “No way! How long has she been seeing you?”

“It’ll be going on a year now pretty soon,” Leslie informs her cheerfully. “She’s made a lot of progress. I’m...really proud of her.” Her blush deepens.

Chloe smirks, but says nothing. It’s effortless to react to Leslie’s more subtle emotions, the things she can relate to. It takes away their outward disguises, closing the gap between them. At least for her it does. Leslie seems to have jumped over to her side of the pond the moment they locked eyes.

“Anyway, a lot of our discussions have been about Jericho, Cyberlife, what you might expect. But she’s been opening up these past few months. She talks more about her friends and family now.”

“I don’t know her as well as I should,” Chloe admits, “but I hope she’s said good things?”

“Exceptionally good,” Leslie grins. “You’ve made quite the impression on her, with the whole...well, the things you don’t want to talk about. She thinks you’re a badass.”

Chloe soaks in the word, and all it’s confident implications. She crosses her arms and nods approvingly. “A badass, huh? I could say the same about her.”

“And she _loves_ Remy. Oh! Oh my god. Sorry, I may be getting a little ahead of myself, but what’s it like? Having a human child?”

“Messy,” Chloe answers immediately. “Lots of bodily fluids. Lots of mystery stains and puddles in places there shouldn’t be. She loves to put everything in her mouth, and I mean _everything_. Kinda like her dad, I guess.”

Leslie’s entire face turns blue, but for entirely different reasons.

“Not like that! _No_. Connor has analyzing sensors in his mouth...for some reason. He uses them a lot for work. He’s a detective. And he’s ace and proud.”

“Ah! Sorry then for...Sorry. My mind went right to the gutters. I’m so sorry.”

“You didn’t know. It’s okay,” Chloe assures her.

Leslie runs her fingers through the end of her ponytail. It slinks around her shoulder like a snake, and Chloe half-expects it to strike her with a pair of fangs any minute. “Connor seems nice, from what I’ve heard. Pardon me if this steps over any more lines, but is it weird being married to...The Deviant Hunter?”

The metal clamps acting as Chloe’s jaw sheeze up. “I’m not married to The Deviant Hunter. I’m married to Connor. Is it weird being married to the man who helped save the Android Revolution? It comes with more publicity than I expected, but weird? Never.”

“How would you describe it then?”

Chloe’s plastic teeth threaten to crack against one another if she doesn’t ease up on the pressure. But for that to happen, these questions need to ease up first. “What do you mean? He’s my husband. I love him. We have a child that we’re raising together. He knows everything about me, and I know everything about him. He knows when I’m upset. He knows when I need to destress. He knows the best ways to make me laugh and feel cared for. Everyday, he looks at me like I hung the moon and the stars. And everyday I wish I try to return that affection back as best I can. He’s the greatest man I know.”

Leslie smiles, and she has the audacity to act oblivious. “I’m relieved.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“You speak so fondly of him. You really are in love. Even after what happened.”

After she was forced to kneel before her husband. After she was forced to stare into his lifeless eyes. After his LED shifted to a firm yellow and stayed that way for a confined eternity. After eons passed of Elijah fighting Hank for control of Connor’s fate and Chloe realized she was _scared_.

She thought-no. She had been _certain_ , for a moment, just _one moment_ , that he was going to pull the trigger. That she was going to die. It was all it took to demolish that red wall inside her mind, when added to the decades of Elijah’s torment. But before she could do anything to defend herself, Connor had already pointed the gun away from her head.

She’s never told Connor she doubted him. Chloe doesn’t think she could muster the courage to try.

“I don’t want to talk about that either.”

Disappointment puts a dimmer on Leslie’s natural glow. “It may do some good to talk about it.”

“Aren’t you not supposed to pressure your patients into confessions?” Chloe accuses sharply.

“I noticed you grew more defensive when I asked questions about Connor. That may be tied to-”

“I’m _defensive_ because you called him The Deviant Hunter,” Chloe answers harshly. “And I told you I didn’t want to talk about Eli-” She cuts herself off, her boiling anger now set to a low simmer. “I don’t want to talk about anything. I appreciate you inviting me over. I appreciate you wanting to catch up. But I’m not looking for some kind of surprise therapy session.”

Anticipation takes hold of Leslie. She shakes as if seconds away from combustion. “I was in the pool-”

Chloe jumps to her feet. The loveseat scoots back an inch, the screech silencing Leslie. She didn’t have much on her when she left the house, so it doesn’t take her long to gather her things now and leave.

“Chloe, wait-!”

She thinks she’ll find some sort of pleasure from slamming the door behind her. She’s wrong.

 

**March 9, 2042**

**8:02 AM EDT**

 

It takes a fair amount of elbow grease, even from Connor, to scrub the dried ketchup off Remy’s favorite dinner plate. With every swipe of his sponge, a little more tomato residue comes off and the Mickey Mouse design underneath is revealed. Finished, he rinses it off and sets it in the dish drainer, knowing he has made his daughter very happy.

Sumo has been whining at his feet ever since he started cleaning the dishes. Connor has ignored him only because he knows he’s no match for those beady brown eyes. One look and he’ll be giving Sumo the entire box of treats in the cupboard.

“No boy. Go lay down.”

Defeated, Sumo picks himself up and trudges back to the living room. Connor may not be giving him a treat, but at least the detective is more lenient about when the dog can lay on the couch than a certain lieutenant is.

The dishes are done, the humans of the household have eaten, and it seems as if everyone is ready to settle in the for night. Everyone except Chloe, evidently. Connor turns away from the sink to find his wife still sitting at the dinner table, hands clasped tightly in front of her.

He tries not to do this often, but Connor gives her a quick scan. Her stress levels are far higher than normal. Connor slips into the dining chair across from her and puts his own hands on the table.

“Is everything alright, dear?”

Chloe jolts, as if she just realized Connor was in the room with her. “Yeah. Everything’s...everything’s fine. I’ll head to bed soon. Don’t feel like you have to wait up on me.”

Connor finds it difficult not to frown. “Hank told me you saw someone you hadn’t seen in a while.”

Her eyes shut, as if to repel his statement. “Another RT600. She...I knew her. She goes by Leslie now. We talked for a bit.”

“What did you two talk about?”

Chloe opens her eyes just to look away from him. Her stress levels spike briefly, and the pain it gives Connor shoots straight through his thirium pump. He reaches a hand across the table and sets it atop hers, rubbing tiny circles into her knuckles with the pad of his thumb.

A shaky sigh tumbles out of her, and with it comes a sudden rush of tears.

“Oh Chloe. Chloe, hey. It’s okay. It’s alright. Talk to me, dear.”

“I don’t-” She chokes on a muddled sob, unable to calm down. “I don’t want to.”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to. But if you want to, I’ll listen.”

Androids don’t feel pain, but Connor has experienced his fair amount of emotional torment. Nothing hurts him more than watching Chloe life suffer and being unable to do anything. All he can do is wait, and wait, and _wait_.

Chloe rubs her eyes roughly with her hoodie sleeve. Then she goes still. Very still. Connor pre-constructs her best options for what to do if she were to self destruct. She hasn’t broken down this badly in ages. Not since Amanda came back for an encore performance.

There is a deep, profound guilt in Chloe eyes when she finally looks at him. Unease seeps into Connor’s biocomponents.

“You know I love you, right?”

“Wh-Of _course_. I love you too. Why are you asking?”

Connor has no reason to question Chloe’s loyalty. Not after the six months she sacrificed for him. Whatever is upsetting her, he knows they can move passed it.

“I just...I-I just wanted you to remember that,” she responds weakly. “I love you so damn much, Connie.”

Connor sits poised on the edge of his chair. “Baby, you’re scaring me.”

“Don’t be,” she assures him. “I’m not in any danger. Just reminding you because...Fuck, Connie. I’m sorry. I’m so _sorry._ ”

Chloe crumples in on herself, and Connor moves to catch her before she can fall out of her chair. She’s nothing but sobs now, racking them out one after the other. Connor rubs her back and tries to keep his movements slow and steady. He could easily be shaking with her.

“I don’t know what’s wrong, but whatever it is it’s not your fault honey. We’ll get through this, okay? Hey now, it’s alright.”

Her hair has fallen into his mouth. Connor tries to spit it out discreetly. By the time he does, Chloe has exhausted herself enough to stop shaking. Connor scoops her up in his arms and carries her over to the couch. He shoos Sumo onto the floor and sits her down beside him.

Chloe curls into him, her face hidden by a curtain of her blonde locks. Connor tries to push them aside, but they drift back down as soon as he does.

“I think I need help, Connie.”

“Okay. We’ll get you help. Anything you need. You’re very brave for admitting it.”

“Leslie...s-she’s a therapist now. We were just talking a-and then all of a sudden...she started asking these...these questions that…that weren’t even that bad. I just...”

Connor wraps an arm around her waist. He gives her a firm squeeze. “They upset you.”

Chloe sighs, spiteful of what can’t be said. “I don’t understand why i-it’s so hard to just... _talk_ about what happened. To her, to me...any of it. Even you. S-She kept asking about you too and it r-really bothered me.”

There’s a lot to ask about Connor, and a good majority of the questions Connor has heard about him involve his days before deviating. Whatever Leslie inquired about must have surely fallen into that same category. Connor sucks in a heavy breath just to feel his artificial lungs expand. “I’m really sorry, babe. You shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

Chloe shakes her head. “No, that’s not why...no. It wasn’t like that. It was about...about Elijah…”

The name spurs Connor to a quick burst of anger, but he holds it in. Now is not the time for him to speak.

“I should be _fine_ , Connie.” She gives a bitter laugh, failing just like he did to part the hair from her face. “M-My life is perfect. I have you, and our baby, and more than I ever thought I could have. _Would_ ever have...so why am I so _unhappy?_ ”

Connor doesn’t try to fix her hair. Instead, he cups her face with one hand and turns her gently to face him. “It’s okay to be unhappy. It’s okay not to be okay. Chloe, I...I know you’ve been hurting. Our lives before were such polar opposites, and I’m sorry I can’t understand just how much you _are_ hurting. I-If I could make it easier for you, I would. I’d do anything.”

Chloe smiles wanly. “I know you would. You...you’re far more than I deserve, Connor.”

A terrible ache settles in Connor’s chest. He’s not sure what to say in response, so he settles with holding her closer.

“I need to go to therapy.”

Connor finds her hand and holds it tight. “When do you want to start?”

“I...don’t know. I don’t even know where we’ll find the money for it.”

“Don’t worry about money. You come first. And if push comes to shove, we have an army of officers and androids behind us.”

Chloe chuckles easily. The sound soothes Connor’s nerves. “Do you think it’ll help? What if...what if it doesn’t?”

“There’s no harm in trying. As long as you’re trying, you’re making progress.”

Fresh tears pile up in the corner of her eyes. Connor brushes them away as best he can.

“Do you want to try going tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s a Monday,” Chloe reminds him.

“Tomorrow’s a new day. If you want to go, you should.”

Chloe nods. “I do. I really do.”

Guilt still lingers in her gaze, but there’s no need to address it now. Connor has learned when words are needed and when they are not. Instead, he holds her though the night as they slip in stasis.

 

**March 10, 2042**

**12:16 AM EDT**

 

The couch they’re sitting on now is much darker than the one they were yesterday. It’s chevron pattern can hide stains more easily than the loveseat could. That’s what motherhood does to a woman, Chloe supposes. It makes one evaluate durability based on a child’s destructive ability.

Leslie has been apologizing profusely for the past two minutes. Chloe has tuned her out for the most part by now. She catches the beats that really matter, nodding her head to the ones that don’t.

“I just...I have my own issues with that place, and Kamski, and...w-when I finally found you again, I thought, ‘Finally. Someone who _understands_.’”

Another nod, but Chloe makes sure this one appears genuine. “You wanted someone to talk to.”

“And you weren’t ready, and I forced you to, and I’m...I’m _so, so sorry_.”

Leslie is on the verge of hysterics, but the hurricane of emotions dissipates almost immediately once Chloe places a hand on her shoulder. “I know you are. It’s okay. Really. I...I want to talk. But I need to take it a bit slower than that. And I probably won’t be ready after this hour session either.”

A wide smile spreads across Leslie’s face. “Take all the time you need. What do you want to discuss first?”

It’s a question Chloe has been asking herself ever since she called Leslie’s office. “Uh...clothes.”

“Okay. What about clothes?”

“I...I can’t stand dresses. But I can wear them to weddings and stuff, but...whenever it’s not a special occasion, I feel...uncomfortable. No, it’s worse than that. I just...can’t describe it right.”

“That’s okay. I think I get where you’re coming from.”

“And makeup. I love makeup. I even took a cosmetology class for a bit. But...I can’t get back into it for some reason. I think what happened...what happened with New Jericho tainted that for me.”

Leslie listens patiently, soaking up Chloe’s words like a sponge. “What would you like to work towards with your appearance?”

“I want…” Chloe wrings her hands together in her lap. “I want what _you_ have. I want to feel comfortable no matter what I’m wearing. I want to put my hair up, and wear dresses, and feel _pretty_.”

Barely five minutes into the session and Chloe has exposed more of herself than she has in the past two years. It all rushes out of her so suddenly, so _easily_ , and the relief that follows is like nothing she’s ever felt before.

“Wow…So, I just said that.”

“You did,” Leslie beams proudly. “How do you feel?”

Chloe grins. “Fucking amazing.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey thanks for reading bud. I really appreciate it :)
> 
> There's a spotify playlist for the fic now (as of chapter 7). Come listen to some emo jams: https://open.spotify.com/user/xa8v35ygobonfjsdvb0qq8d57/playlist/6qXN1TbD5Jq926dOrdxtko?si=g-Gk948yRBCCpd-qXj3f8A
> 
> Join the Detroit: New ERA discord and check out the White Lilac channel if you want!!!! Come say hi to me, I'm a very lonely person: https://discord.gg/UZXAZp
> 
> Also check out my instagram if you want: @yknow_smug


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